


Followed by the Night

by element78



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU- no zombies, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 131,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/element78/pseuds/element78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Grimes is a homicide detective whose life has fallen apart. Shattered by his best friend's death and the implosion of his marriage, he leaves Atlanta and moves back to his childhood home of King County, Georgia, to pin on a deputy's badge and pick up the pieces of his life.</p>
<p>Daryl Dixon is a hunter whose brother and hunting partner got arrested for a murder he didn't commit. Tired of his thankless job, he's content to just coast through his new civilian life, until people in town start dying in mysterious, and familiar, ways.</p>
<p>The only way they're getting out of this alive is by working together.</p>
<p>(a supernatural fusion, of sorts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the end

**Author's Note:**

> All but the most rabid fans have some serious problems with Supernatural. It started out as a good show that somehow grew into something huge and uncontrollable and full of issues, and some people aren't willing to look past those issues when there are so many other, less problematic and just plain better, shows out there. So I'll say this right off the bat:
> 
> YOU DO NOT NEED TO WATCH OR LIKE SUPERNATURAL TO READ THIS FIC.
> 
> There is a reason this fic isn't tagged Supernatural, and that's because only the basic idea- hunters and monsters- made it in. I've even tweaked the monsters a bit to fit the story better. 
> 
> As a side note, I have basically made up everything about King County, as we know nothing about it save that it's 'up the road a ways' from Atlanta. I've put it up in northern Georgia near the mountains and invented the town of Ashlyn as its seat.

_December 23rd, 2011  
Hattiesburg, MS_

The thing was, there was _history_ here, deep in the South. It was one of the oldest corners of a toddler nation, and people didn’t know- didn’t want to know- what that meant. This was a land soaked in blood.

Daryl Dixon stabbed his cigarette blindly into the ashtray at his elbow, most of his focus on the television above the bar. It was barely three in the afternoon and there was no one to complain about the lack of a game on, so the bartender hadn’t protested too much when Merle stood on the bar and flipped the TV to a news channel and turned the volume up so they could actually hear it over the shitty Christmas music the bar’s overhead sound system was piping in.

“Well, shit,” Merle said as he sat back down. On the screen, a typically attractive reporter was standing in front of an old church with construction equipment parked around it, a small crowd of people toting homemade signs weaving a wobbly circle through the big machines. The scroll of text at the bottom read _Public Outcry Over Relocation of Civil War Graves_.

“Disturbin’ old graves,” Daryl said with a tired sigh. “Idiots never learn.” Nothing pissed off peacefully slumbering spirits like fucking around with their graves.

“We’d be out of a job if they did, baby brother,” Merle said with a manic sort of cheer, slapping Daryl’s shoulder hard enough to near knock him off his stool. Daryl eyed him suspiciously- Merle had been clean for going on nine weeks now, but Daryl knew better than to hope it’d last. A hunt had gone bad a couple months ago and Daryl had caught the worst of it, and that was always enough to scare Merle straight for a month or three. However, eventually, inevitably, he would start using again.

“All this media attention’s gonna be a bitch,” he said, then gestured with his beer bottle towards the TV. “Gonna be trippin’ over cameras and protestors.”

“I say we let Casper off a few of ‘em first, make sure there really is gonna be a problem,” Merle said. The bartender, doing aimless busywork at the far end of the bar so as to not be accused of eavesdropping, lowered his head a little and moved further away, not sure what he was overhearing but knowing for a fact he wanted nothing to do with it.

“Fuck you,” Daryl said quietly, taking another sip of his beer. That was, at the heart of it, the main difference between them- forget the drugs, the casual abuse, the arguments, the stealing. Merle hunted because he liked killing shit. Daryl hunted because it was something he could do, something he was good at. It was all he had, in truth, and if he sometimes felt better about himself for knowing he was helping people, saving them- well, that was nobody's business but his.

“Easy there, Darylina,” Merle said. “I’m only kiddin’.” He tossed back the last of his beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar, and both Daryl and the bartender jumped a little and glared at him. Merle belched, cracked all his knuckles, and oozed off his stool. Daryl finished off his own beer and tossing a ten on the bar to cover the bill before following him out.

It was nippy outside, so Daryl pulled his jacket in tighter over his shoulders. If he breathed out and watched closely enough he could see his breath almost start to crystallize. In terms of brutal winter conditions, it was like being savaged by a kitten. Anyone hoping for a white Christmas- foolishly hoping, considering the local climate- was gonna be shit outta luck. Not that it mattered to Daryl any; the Dixons had a longstanding tradition of not celebrating any holiday, ever.

“Thinkin’ we’ll head down to New Orleans after this,” Merle said casually, and Daryl lifted his head, feeling the dread trickle through him like ice in his veins.

“Yeah?” he asked warily. He used to like New Orleans- used to love it, actually, loved the good food and the relaxed atmosphere, to say nothing of Louisiana’s ridiculously lax gun laws- until he’d figured out why Merle dragged them down there so often. His crystal meth dealer was in New Orleans. “Got someone you need to see down there?”

Merle stopped and glared at him, but Daryl wasn’t within grabbing distance- he knew better than that. “What I do in that city ain’t none o’ your business, boy,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough like thunder. He sounded, in that moment, exactly like their father.

Daryl scoffed but said nothing. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and lowered his head and swayed on the spot, just out of Merle’s reach. Finally his brother snorted.

“Let’s just get this done,” he said as he turned away.

“Oughta wait ‘til tonight,” Daryl warned, once again following after his brother.

“Nah,” Merle said, his mood lightening in the face of Daryl’s unswerving loyalty, fucked up though they both knew it was. “ ‘S just a pissy spirit. It’s amateur hour. We’ll be done by tonight.”

Seventy-two hours later, Merle was cuffed to the railing of his hospital bed by his left hand- his only hand, now- and Daryl, fresh out of police interrogation and not entirely sure he had permission to leave but fuck them all anyways, was halfway through Alabama and still hauling ass.  
Fuck the cops, fuck those stupid insane suicidal protestors. Fuck Merle, while he was at it, for telling him to get out of town and never look back- simultaneously the most and least selfish thing Merle had ever done, ordering Daryl to get clear of this shitstorm.

Fuck the job. He was done with that shit.

_Done._

\-----

_May 16th, 2013  
Ashlyn, King County, GA_

“It’s a lovely house,” the real estate agent had said a week ago, when he’d still been just looking at the place. “Three bedroom, one-and-a-half bath- will your wife be joining you to look around?”

Rick had rubbed his thumb over his wedding band for a moment, a nervous habit, then tugged it off and tucked it into his pocket. “No,” he said simply, and the agent had floundered, not knowing what to say, what was safe to say. Rick could be cold as ice, Lori had told him countless times- when he got mad, he froze, he didn’t burn like most people, and apparently that was something terrifying to behold.

It was a lovely house, Rick eventually allowed himself to notice. It’d been a week since that conversation and he was officially moving in- mostly by keeping out of the way as the movers did all the real work- and he finally took the time to actually look over his newest commitment. The walls were white but not spotless, the floors all wood and nostalgically creaky underfoot, the rooms airy with wide windows accented by gauzy curtains. The place looked lived-in, if strangely bare without any furniture. It reminded him of his childhood home, which was the entire point.

“ ‘Scuse me, sir,” one of the movers said impatiently. He was holding up the front half of a kitchen table, and Rick scrambled out of the kitchen doorway.

“Maybe you wanna wait outside, sir?” the other mover, the one holding the back end of the table, said as he walked past. “One of your neighbors is out. Be neighborly of you to go say hi.”

“Am I in the way?” Rick asked as the movers set the table down. There was the immediate, loud silence of two men trying very hard to not say anything, and Rick nodded once to himself. “I’m in the way,” he said, moving back out into the living room. “I’ll get outta your hair, then.”

The back of the moving van was still open, most of the furniture already out. Up front, next to be moved, was a crib. Rick stopped on the porch and stared at it for a long moment. It’d been his crib when he was a baby, and he’d hoped it would be Carl’s too. Lori had shot that idea down, giving him a long list of reasons that basically amounted to her parents gave them a fancy crib at the baby shower and they were using that because she said so, and Rick had let her, too blindly in love with this woman who was carrying his child to care.

He cared now, fourteen years too late.

He turned away and paced to one end of his porch, studying the house over there. The minivan in the driveway had a handicapped placard dangling from the rearview mirror and a wheelchair lift hooked up in the back. Rick shook his head and turned away, then paused. The house on the other side had a motorcycle in the driveway and a man sitting cross-legged next to it, a toolbox sitting open beside him. He was turned away from Rick, so all Rick saw was the broadness of his shoulders, the curve of his back, the definition of his well-toned biceps made clear by his sleeveless shirt. His right hand was resting on his knee, barely visible from Rick’s angle, and tucked between two fingers was a cigarette burned almost down to the filter. 

This was not the sort of man that concerned himself overmuch with being _neighborly_ , Rick thought to himself. He’d been a cop for the better part of sixteen years. He knew trouble when he moved in next door to it.

Rick stepped down off the porch and cut across his yard, heading straight towards his neighbor at a casual stroll. He wasn’t surprised in the least when awareness coiled through the other man’s spine and straightened him up from his careless slouch, some animal instinct warning him of the approach. He didn’t bother to look back, though, just lifted his cigarette to his mouth and blew out a billow of smoke, the wind carrying it over to Rick to sting his nose.

“Afternoon,” he said casually, stopping at the property line, and the other man turned his head just a little bit. His hair shielded his face and curtained his eyes, but Rick could still see something of them, cat-narrow and pale.

“You the new neighbor, then?” he asked, stubbing his cigarette butt out into the ashtray beside the tool box.

“Rick Grimes,” Rick said, his right hand instinctively coming to rest on his belt. For a moment he groped blindly, feeling for a holstered gun, a gold badge clipped over his pocket, before he remembered.

The motion hadn’t been missed. His neighbor smirked, one corner of his mouth pulling up, and turned away.

“Daryl Dixon,” he said finally, the words carrying a certain expectation, and Rick went very still, like a rabbit spotting a snake in the grass.

He knew about Daryl Dixon; of course he did. Everyone in King County knew about Daryl Dixon. He was a quiet, law-abiding citizen whose brother had pled guilty to double homicide in Mississippi in order to avoid the death penalty, and whose reputation splashed back onto his brother. Daryl was the town’s boogeyman- shadowed and ominous, a silent threat, but ultimately harmless. In Rick’s youth, it had been Old Man Carroway, the widower who lived in the house on the crest of the Maple Avenue hill and who would bang a couple of pots together and scream like an alley cat to scare kids out of his yard.

Rick had formally transferred out of Atlanta PD and into the King County Sheriff’s Department four months ago almost to the day- the very same day Lori had served him with the divorce papers- and not once in those four months had Daryl ever caused even a parking ticket’s worth of trouble. But it still felt wrong to have him here, in this quiet kid-friendly neighborhood, a dark smudge on the bright landscape. He didn’t _belong_ here.

Guess that made two of them, then.

“Reckon you’ve heard by now I’m a cop,” Rick said amiably, and Daryl flicked him another look, unconcerned. “We ain’t gonna have any problems, are we?”

Daryl unfolded his legs and rose to his feet in one smooth move. He was Rick’s height, but he was broader in the shoulders and probably close to thirty pounds of pure muscle heavier. Rick rocked back on his heels, feeling irritatingly small compared to the other man, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him, that he was challenging the guy like this. 

“Nah,” Daryl said finally. “Ain’t gonna be a problem, ‘less you got one.” He gave Rick a long searching look, then turned away, gathering up his toolbox and ashtray and heading into his garage.

“Hey,” one of the movers called, and Rick tore himself away from his senseless staring and turned back, lifting his brows in question. “What do you want us to do with these boxes?”

Rick walked back across his yard, sparing a glance over his shoulder every few steps- but Daryl didn’t return, probably went into his house through the garage so he didn’t have to deal with his judgmental, pissy neighbor. They were off to a great start, all sarcasm intended, and it was entirely Rick’s fault.

The very first box he saw had _Shane_ written on the side, Lori’s normally neat writing all blocky and wobbly, like her hand had been shaking. She didn’t want any reminders of Shane and had dumped them all on Rick. He didn’t know yet how he felt about that, what he intended to do with any of it. He stared at his best friend’s name written by his wife’s hand and felt nothing more than very, very tired.

“Put ‘em in the garage,” he said, already moving to go open the garage door. “I’ll sort through ‘em later.”

“You got it,” the mover said, and grabbed the box nearest him- _books_ \- and hauled it inside.

Rick slid his hands into his pockets and groaned, allowing himself to slouch. He’d been bracing himself for the next blow for months now, ever since he’d found Lori in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with her back to the refrigerator and her face messy with tear-smeared makeup, the pregnancy test in her hand showing a little blue cross in the readout circle. Such a little thing, to completely destroy three lives and damage countless more.

He looked over at Daryl’s house one more time, then moved over to the stack of boxes. He slid his left hand out of his pocket, rolling the gold band of his wedding ring between his fingers. He’d been keeping it with him, not wearing it, just needing it close. He stared at it for a long moment- then pried up one flap of the box marked _Shane_ and dropped it in and strode quickly away, before he could tackle the box and dig his ring back out.

Some things belonged in the past.

\-----

“A cop?” Michonne echoed, like she couldn’t be sure she’d heard it right. She might not have- the connection was staticky and breaking. She was probably out in the woods somewhere, barely on the edge of civilization. She was breaking in a new partner, Daryl knew, some lawyer chick whose sister had been killed by a vampire. 

There were only two reasons hunters got into the job. Daryl was lucky enough to have been born to it.

“Atlanta PD, homicide,” he read off from the computer screen. “Got an article here, says his partner got himself last year.”

“And why do I care?” Michonne asked patiently. In the background, a woman yelled for her to hurry up already, and Michonne yelled something back, her voice muffled and indistinct- she’d put her hand over the phone, Daryl guessed.

“Ain’t my house,” he said once she was back. “Am I gonna have trouble explainin’ this?”

“No,” Michonne said steadily. “The bills are paid, you signed a lease and you cough up rent every month, everything’s solid from a legal standpoint. Are you growing pot in the basement or something?”

Daryl said nothing, his silence more eloquent than words could ever be.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Michonne continued. “Just don’t go pissing him off on purpose.”

The other woman yelled something again, and Michonne yelled back again. This time, Daryl heard snatches of phrases- _he’s a friend_ , was one, and _look after each other_ was another. It set his teeth on edge. It was bad enough accepting charity from Michonne, living in her house for basically nothing. He wasn’t about to let anyone else start pitying him.

“You gotta go,” he said, mostly to remind himself- Michonne was not his. Merle had been, ‘til they’d fucked it all up. Now he was alone, and that was how it would stay.

“Yes, I do,” Michonne said smoothly. “Take care of yourself, Daryl,” she added, soft and sincere and surprising. Then there was dead air, a silence loud and living after the constant chatter of the static-riddled line.

Daryl dropped the phone to the table and sat back in the chair, staring at the computer screen. A radically different Richard H. Grimes than the one he had met today looked back at him. This one was clean-shaven and bright-eyed, looking a decade younger than the scruffy, tousle-haired man from earlier. Why the hell would a big city homicide detective give it all up and move to the boonies?

His phone buzzed, rattling merrily across the table, and Daryl snatched it up. He’d set his work alarm months ago- hard to adjust to set hours, after thirty-six years of going to work whenever the hell he felt like it. But, as Michonne had pointed out, he paid the bills and his mockery of a rent. He could deal with the boredom of a civilian life.

He grabbed his jacket and his helmet and closed the garage door behind him as he headed out, sparing a glance at Rick’s house. The moving van was gone, the house itself closed up and dark. Daryl stared at it a good long moment before starting his bike up. He worked at a bar and kept a bartender’s hours, and if Rick Grimes was a light sleeper, Daryl’s three a.m. homecoming every morning was going to leave an even worse impression on the man than he’d already managed just by being a Dixon. 

Right next door to a fucking _cop_. This was going to suck.

\-----

_May 20th  
Greene family farm, King County_

“You need boots.”

“What?” Rick asked, lifting his head. He’d been staring intently at the ground, trying to avoid stepping on anything- well, just _anything_. Being a deputy in small-town northern Georgia was very different from being a detective in Atlanta, he’d known that when he requested the transfer. He’d just forgotten, was all, what it was like to live out here.

Next to him, Maggie Greene laughed in delight, a pretty sound. A pretty girl, really, with just enough of that Irish spirit in her to make her vivacious and exciting, not enough to be overbearing and obnoxious. Rick’s first thought upon meeting her had been a very fatherly _sweet young girl_ , with all the paternal affection he was capable of, and he knew in that second that he was getting old.

He used to be Maggie’s age, not that long ago, it had felt like. When the hell had this whole getting old thing even happened?

“Boots,” Maggie said again, patiently. “You need a good pair of boots, if you really wanna go native.”

Rick hesitated and looked away, walking through the field in silence. It wasn’t any of Maggie’s business, but-

“I am a native,” he said finally.

“Really?” the girl asked, her pretty smile tugging at her lips again.

“Ashlyn, born ‘n raised,” he said. “Didn’t move to Atlanta ‘til I was twelve.”

He’d met Shane in Atlanta, the first week of school after he moved. The busy middle school in a big city had been overwhelming to a small-town boy, and Shane had somehow found his scared naïvety endearing and took him under his wing, forging a friendship that would last twenty-two years. Lori had been at that school too, although the less said about that, the better. 

He turned his thoughts away from those long-dead days and frowned. He could smell it now, death and blood warring for dominance. “Anythin’ like this ever happen before?” he asked as he walked up to the body.

It was- had been- a cow, until someone had slit open its belly and painted the spring-green grass with its guts. Rick had seen worse- done to humans, no less- but something about this seemed especially pointless and cruel.

“Once, last year,” Maggie said, settling easily into a more serious mood. “We get a cow splitting open in the heat sometimes, but the heat doesn’t do this.” She gestures towards the viscera staining the grass.

“Predators, maybe?” Rick offered, crouching down to study the cut better. “Coyotes or foxes?” They were in northern Georgia after all, close to the mountains. He could safely rule out bears and wolves, but there were other, smaller predators, wilier and more adaptable than their larger brethren.

“My dad called and asked for you in specific,” Maggie said. “He wanted someone to take this seriously, to not just shrug it off like it’s nothing.”

 _The Sheriff’s Department serves all of King County, not just Ashlyn_ , Hershel Greene had said, when Rick had first met him, several weeks ago by now. He was a tall, stern man, not unkind, just uncompromising. There was steel in him, tested and tempered, and Rick had found himself respecting the older man within minutes of meeting him. _You’ll do well to remember that_.

“I do take it seriously,” Rick said, standing up straight again, brushing his hands off on his uniform pants. Diane from dispatch had scolded him for the state of his uniform- washed but not ironed, top three shirt buttons undone- and Rick had ignored her. Lori was a perfectionist and a little bit vain; Rick was neither, and was having fun indulging his inner slob a little now that he didn’t have anyone to impress anymore.

“I was in college last time,” Maggie told him, and for a moment her expression turned distant, sad. Rick had been around town long enough to know the story- Hershel’s wife, Maggie’s stepmother, had passed away a few months back, and Maggie had put her college career on hold in order to help out at home and make sure her recovered alcoholic father didn’t slip into a tailspin. “I can’t tell you much about it, ‘cept the deputy decided it was just some kids pulling a mean prank.” She looked down at the dead cow and said nothing else, but Rick knew what she was thinking: this was not the work of kids, this was the work of a monster.

“Can you think of anyone would do this? Anyone have any problems with your father?” Rick asked.

“No,” Maggie said. “God, no. No one we know would-” She stopped herself, her hand covering her mouth as if to hold the words in.

“A’right,” Rick said soothingly, moving a step or two away from the body. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now- there was hardly room in the department’s budget for spending any real amount of resources, even just Rick’s time, on cow poaching, or whatever this was called. But he’d meant it when he said he took this seriously. It didn’t feel right, that someone could do this and walk away safe, knowing no one would ever look into it. He just didn’t know where to begin.

He didn’t need this, not now- not ever, if he were being honest, but especially not now. He’d convinced Lori only yesterday to let the kids spend the summer out here in Ashlyn with him, the only time he’d get to see them anymore outside of holidays. His own damn fault for moving out of the city, over an hour’s drive away, making the standard post-divorce custody settlements impossible. He just couldn’t stay in the city anymore- he was a small-town boy, born and bred, and Atlanta had used him up and tossed him aside and he’d had to leave.

“Your dad’s the local vet, right?” he asked, and Maggie nodded. “You think he’d mind…?” He didn’t have words for it, so he just gestured to the cow.

“You want him to do an autopsy?” Maggie asked, her tone one part amused and one part disgusted.

“Whoever did this would’ve had blood up to their shoulders.” Rick said, gesturing towards the cow. “It just seems like an awful lotta trouble to go to for a prank, is all.” 

Understanding lit up Maggie’s features and she looked again at the hollowed-out belly of the cow, at the guts and ropes of intestine dragged over the grass. “You think they took something?” she asked, and the disgust was definitely pulling ahead now.

Rick looked helplessly at the mess at his feet. “Will he be able to tell?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Maggie said. “Might take him a few days to get back to you, the Nortons have a sickly calf he’s been sittin’ with.”

Rick nodded and turned away, heading back towards the farmhouse. Halfway there, his heel sunk into something suspiciously soft and he kicked it away in irritation. Boots, he thought to himself- and dead cows, and Lori’s condescending tone on the phone yesterday, Daryl Dixon who drove the world’s loudest motorcycle and had woken Rick up every morning for four days straight. Small town problems.

He left his number with Maggie at the house, secured her promise that her dad would call as soon as he had anything, and drove back into town, the windows of his cruiser all rolled down and his hat tucked safely under one arm. Spring was in high form, the sky a scrubbed-clean porcelain blue, the grass still green and shiny and not yet withering under summer’s baking heat. He loved this time of year. With the wind in his hair and the sky opening big and blue before him, he could almost forget all his troubles and pretend he was a teenager again.

Then the 7-11 at the edge of town blew past and Ashlyn started to sprout up around him, and he focused on the road again, all flights of fancy forgotten.


	2. hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, in a relatively timely manner, as promised. Expect some minor gore, though not more than the show likes to shock us with.

_May 23rd  
Ashlyn_

William Dixon had taught his younger son a multitude of things- how to burn a body and lop off heads, how to stitch up his own wounds and hide his bruises, how to hold his own against a monster, be it human or otherwise- and Daryl carried them with him, a rulebook etched into the skin of his back.

Vivian Dixon, with her Virginia Slims and bottles of Ripple, had taught Daryl a few things too. Those scars went deeper than any his father had ever left.

He was sprawled out across his porch steps, ashtray at his elbow and half-empty cigarette box in his shirt pocket, when the strange car pulled into Grimes’ driveway. He tucked his chin down onto his chest and narrowed his eyes- he and Grimes hadn’t got off to the best start and had been politely keeping their distance ever since. Sometimes they caught each other coming or going at the same time, a brief awkward moment where they ignored each other, but mostly it was tolerable, as if Grimes had decided it just wasn’t worth it. 

The woman who got out of the car was pretty enough, he supposed, with a nice face and dark hair coiled into a neat bun and fancy clothes and well-applied makeup. She was thin as a twig, her limbs long and spindly like a spider’s legs, and Daryl felt his anxiety level tick up a notch or two just looking at her. She wasn’t a woman, she was a living china doll, fragile and delicate, just waiting to be shattered by a second of careless handling. She put her hands on her hips and studied Grimes’ house, then shook her head a little, like she was disappointed by what she saw. She started to turn back to the car, then stopped dead and snapped her gaze back to Daryl, who had been holding perfectly still in the hope that if he didn’t move, she wouldn’t be able to see him.

The passenger door on the car swung open and a boy slid out. He was halfway up the porch steps when the woman- his mother, presumably- noticed him and called out to him, telling him to get his sister, and the boy groaned as only a long-suffering teenager can and started back down towards the car. Then the woman turned and marched across the yard towards Daryl.

Shit. 

Daryl curled into himself slowly, subtly, as she approached. He was shit at dealing with women in general- men he understood, he knew what was expected of him, but women always seemed to be changing the rules on him.

“Hey,” she said as she came to a stop just shy of the porch stairs, a fake smile on her face. “I’m Lori, Rick’s ex.” She faltered on the ex, and Daryl said nothing, watching and waiting. “My kids are gonna be staying here a while, and I know it’s none of my business, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke out here while they’re outside.” 

Daryl considered her, the false smile, the thin veneer of civility in her tone, the very-near command in her words. “Try not to,” he allowed- a neat little surrender, as far as he was concerned, as he was going to be going out of his way to do this woman a favor and get nothing in return, except maybe her leaving him alone.

Evidently, it was the wrong thing to say. Lori’s fake smile disappeared and her pretty face twisted into the beginnings of a scowl, her body shifting subtly into a more aggressive stance, and Daryl pushed himself upright in instinctive response, not yet rising to his feet but only seconds away from it. Woman or not, hostility was something he definitely knew how to handle.

“You’ll try not to?” she echoed, her tone cold. “I don’t want my kids breathing that in, or trying it for themselves- why don’t you just smoke inside?”

“ ‘Cause I don’t,” Daryl said calmly, his own temper simmering like a pot left to slow-boil. His ma had taught him to never smoke in the house, the last thing she’d ever taught anyone.

“Shouldn’t even smoke at all,” Lori said sourly. “It’s a disgusting habit.”

Daryl took a drag on his cigarette and tilted his head back, blowing a perfect smoke-ring right at her.

“Lori,” Grimes said suddenly, loudly. The woman started a little and looked away, then turned and walked away without a look back. Daryl watched her go, heading over to her ex-husband, who had a baby propped on one hip and a dark look on his face. 

Kids. Great.

\-----

“I’m not sure about this, Rick,” Lori said. Rick ignored her for a moment, instead reveling in the comfortable weight of his daughter in his arms, familiar and grounding. Judith cooed happily at him, tangling her chubby fists into his hair, the dark curls a tempting toy she was never able to resist. He smiled at her and pressed his face against her belly and breathed in her scent. Three weeks and two days since he’d last held her, and he could feel the difference in her. They grew up so fast.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked, already sure he knew the answer. Lori had been searching for a reason to say no to letting the kids stay with him from the moment he’d suggested it, and he’d been bracing himself for this argument ever since. If he’d noticed Daryl was outside before Lori had arrived, he would’ve been out there to run interference, but it was too late now.

Still, that image of Daryl blowing smoke at Lori and then grinning like a child that had just won a prize- that, Rick would treasure for a good long while.

“Your neighbor smokes, and that motorcycle?” Lori shook her head and glanced out the window. “Carl is very impressionable right now. I don’t feel comfortable with that man anywhere near him,” she finished.

Rick turned, staring her down for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Okay,” he said coolly. “Ain’t gonna be a problem. He’s hardly ever home.”

“Rick-” Lori began, and Rick brushed past her, picking up Judith’s diaper bag.

“You sell the house yet?” he asked, and Lori flushed dark and angry.

When she’d asked him to move out- the week Shane had died, the week Lori went from guilty and apologetic to cold and distant- Rick had done so without a single protest, gladly signing the house over to her. Along with the house, however, Lori got the bills, and being a housewife without a bread-winning husband didn’t exactly pay. She’d had to find a job and borrow money from her parents and even swallow her pride and ask Rick for help more than a few times, especially when Judith was born and the hospital bills started coming in. She eventually decided to sell the house and move someplace less expensive, and Rick had even sacrificed several of his days off to help her pack up the place, but after two months she still hadn’t actually sold it yet.

“It’s not that easy,” she hissed, keeping her voice low out of respect for the baby in Rick’s arms. “You might be able to just walk away from everything we’ve built-”

“I’m not the one that walked away,” Rick snapped, then bent his head and shushed Judith, who was starting to fuss at the anger in his voice.

“What do you call this, then?” Lori demanded, gesturing to the house around them.

Surviving,” Rick said simply, then pushed past her again to head into the living room.

To his surprise, he found Carl there, sitting on the sofa, his cell phone parked an inch from his nose. He was, none too subtly, glancing up out the window every few seconds.

“You arguing again?” Carl asked quietly. They were well past the point of lying to him or themselves, of saying it was just a rough patch and they’d get through it. Some small, crucial part of Rick’s marriage had died the same day Shane had, and everything had just fallen to pieces from there.

“We’re done,” Rick said, depositing Judith into the playpen he’d set up by the couch. “You looking for the neighbor?”

“Yeah,” Carl admitted easily. “I was gonna go say hi, but then Mom went over to yell at him for something.” He paused, then spared Rick a calculating look. “He seems kinda cool.”

Rick stared out the window and thought to himself that, if there was one adult role model Carl could latch onto, Daryl Dixon wasn’t the worst choice available.

“I’ve got tomorrow off,” he said. “I need to find someone to look after your sister. You gonna be all right by yourself?”

“Yeah,” Carl said, looking back at his phone. There couldn’t possibly be anything that interesting on it- Rick knew for a fact they got shitty Wi-Fi in Ashlyn, and Lori wouldn’t allow him to download any games. The phone bill itself was difficult enough without adding extra charges every month.

“Hey,” Rick said, then nudged Carl’s shoulder when he refused to look up. “Hey. I know this isn’t easy for you-”

Carl slithered off the sofa, ducking away from the hand Rick reached out to catch him with. “I’m gonna go say bye to Mom,” he said, and disappeared into the front hallway.

Rick sank down onto the sofa where his son had been sitting, his elbow on his knee, his hand braced against his forehead. He hadn’t expected Carl to warm to the idea of spending his summer vacation away from his mother, his friends, but he’d hoped being able to spend time with his father for the first time in almost a year would warrant something warmer than this passive avoidance.

In her playpen, Judith made a burbling noise, and Rick lifted his head to see her watching him. She squealed happily when she saw him look at her, and he couldn’t help but smile in return. She was the only person who was ever happy to see him anymore. He got up and picked her up and headed outside, away from Lori’s and Carl’s voices in the hallway. Judith cooed and grabbed happily at the ivy climbing one of the porch posts. He rested his hip against the porch railing and let his little girl pull at the leaves as he watched her, content in the presence of the one person he hadn’t let down or disappointed.

A movement to his left caught his eye and he turned his head fast. Daryl was still on his porch, heading inside his house. He didn’t look over but Rick knew he’d been watching.

A moment later Lori was beside him, her eyes locked solely on Judith, and Rick reluctantly handed her over. He highly doubted Lori would go the whole nine weeks without wanting Judith back- Carl was too old to play that game with, but Judith was six months old and Lori hadn’t been away from her for a single night yet. Rick imagined he’d be getting a call asking him to run Judith out to Atlanta in about a week. Still, aside from Lori having to find a job, Rick had been making all the sacrifices here, and he was done with that. They’d settled the custody agreement between them without any lawyers needed, but Rick was not adverse getting nasty if that was what it took to keep him in his children’s lives.

He stayed on the porch until Lori left, not another word spared for him, and a good while after that, until Judith was trying to eat the ivy and Carl was loudly bemoaning the lack of decent wireless, before he finally headed back inside.

\-----

_May 24th_

The lawn needed mowing.

That was Daryl’s life nowadays, encapsulated in one sentence: the lawn needed mowing. The lawn of the house he lived in needed mowing, and he was going to have to do it himself because there was no one else to do it for him and this wasn’t some crash pad he was bailing out of in a few days. At least Grimes had made no effort to control his yard in the week since he’d moved in, and Daryl’s yard didn’t look so out-of-control in contrast. Still, there was putting off an unpleasant chore, and then there was growing his own jungle in the front yard.

He dragged the lawnmower out with a good deal of effort- somehow, the stupid thing always managed to migrate to the back of the garage, behind all the other junk, even if it’d only been a couple weeks since he last used it- then went through the normal struggle of starting it up. He’d never mowed a single lawn before moving here, and he was fairly certain he was doing it- and a good number of other chores- very wrong. Still, the city hadn’t slapped him with another notice after that first one over a year ago, so he figured he wasn’t doing too horrible a job.

He’d just done a short strip alongside the curb and had turned to follow the line between his property and Grimes’ when a sharp motion caught his eye, and he looked up at the cop’s house. Grimes had left earlier, the baby in his arms and the older kid sulking in the front doorway, and wasn’t back yet. He’d left his garage door open- most people did around these parts- and as Daryl watched, the light bulb dangling from its long chain flickered and stuttered and died out. A moment later it snapped back on, bright as ever.

Daryl left the lawn mower where it was and darted back to his house, ducking into the garage and picking out a wrench from the toolbox- most things he could think of couldn’t just shrug off a solid whack to the back of the head from an iron wrench, supernatural origins or not. He loped across the yard, settling easily into hunter mode- weight on the balls of his feet, wrench held loose in his hand, eyes roaming over everything, breaths measured and controlled. 

The light kept flickering even as he moved into the cavern of the garage, maneuvering around the stacks of boxes in the middle of the garage like some child’s city waiting for its Godzilla to come along. He reached the light and pulled its chain, turning it off, then pulled it again. It flickered badly, not even at half brightness. It could just as easily be a sign of bad wiring- in these old houses, it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest- but Daryl had been a professional hunter for twenty years. He trusted his instincts. They’d too often been the only thing to keep him alive.

There was a spirit here.

After a moment the flickering stopped and the light glowed steadily, and Daryl relaxed slightly. A weak spirit, if it was one; nothing to worry about. The house was old, after all. Michonne had checked the history of her house but not the neighbor’s, so it was entirely possible- though highly coincidental- that a retired hunter would land up right next door to a haunted house.

“What’re you doing?” a voice asked behind him, and Daryl nearly hit the ceiling. He spun around, wrench rolling in his hand, then dipping down to press its length along his leg when he found himself looking at the Grimes boy. Sloppy, so fucking sloppy- he was just _asking_ to get killed, paying so little attention that some kid could sneak up on him.

“Lawn mower died,” he said, when the boy just waited for a reply. “Was thinkin’ I could borrow yours.”

The boy looked away and shrugged. He had a lot of his father in him- he’d be tall and lean when he finally got around to growing, all long lines and dramatic angles like his old man, and his eyes were the same worn-denim blue. Daryl wouldn’t be surprised at all if, in ten years, there was a gun on his hip and a badge over his heart. “Dad doesn’t have one,” he said.

Daryl gave a grunt and moved away, back out into the sunlight, keeping as much distance between himself and the kid as he could. 

“I’m Carl,” the kid said, drifting along behind him. Daryl tossed the wrench into the short path of grass he’d already mowed.

“Daryl,” he allowed, and yanked on the cord to start the mower. It roared, sputtered, and died, and Daryl kicked it and bit out a few ripe curses before he remembered his audience.

“Your bike’s really cool,” Carl said, and Daryl looked at him, irritably blowing his hair out of his eyes when it fell across his face. He looked away again quickly, not knowing what he was supposed to say to that.

Finally, for a lack of anything better to say, he said almost desperately, “So your folks’re divorced?”

“Yeah,” Carl said, kicking at the grass with the toes of his sneakers. “It sucks.”

“Could be worse,” Daryl said, and fire flashed in the kid’s eyes.

“Worse?” he challenged, taking a step forward. “My dad’s moved out to the middle of- of _damn_ nowhere, my mom hates him, and neither of them care about me or Judith anymore, they just wanna win!”

What had started out as a normal, if angry, tone ended in a yell that echoed down the street. Carl took a deep breath, his narrow shoulders heaving, and Daryl considered him a long moment.

“Fuckin’,” he said finally.

“What?” Carl demanded, still angry.

“Your dad moved out here to the middle of fuckin’ nowhere,” Daryl said. “You’re gonna cuss, do it right.” He turned away, back to the mower. “An’ you folks still care about you.”

“All the adults say that,” Carl said, but he sounded unnerved. Presumably not all adults encouraged his use of such language.

Daryl closed his eyes a moment and remembered Grimes on the porch the previous day, his daughter in his arms, his expression softened from his normal stony mask for the first time since Daryl had met him, the ivy casting green shadows over his hair and face as he watched the baby play. That was not the face of a man who didn’t care.

“I hate this town already,” Carl said from behind him, when Daryl failed to respond. Daryl looked at the too-tall grass, the weeds poking up, the sprouting tree seedlings. He tried to start the mower again and it caught the third time, its roar drowning out anything else Carl had to say. By the time Daryl looked up from his mowing again, Carl was gone.

\-----

Rick was home by three, tired and frustrated but ultimately successful- all of that, however, amounted to shit, since Judith was in a bad mood too, and her moods tended to be significantly louder than his. She was fussing, not quite to the crying stage, when he rescued her from her car seat.

“Hey,” a gruff voice called when he started up the pathway to his house, and Rick paused and turned to find Daryl approaching. The other man paused at the sight of Judith, looking at Rick like he was carrying an unexploded bomb in his arms. He stayed a fair distance away, and he shifted on the spot, his feet moving like they didn’t know how to be still, his head ducked low so his hair hid his eyes.

He looked nervous, Rick thought, and wondered what the hell could make Daryl Dixon nervous.

“Was talkin’ to your boy a bit ago,” he said finally, when Rick waited him out. Judith had stopped fussing and was watching Daryl intently. Rick knew that look on her face- she was about five seconds away from laughing and grabbing for Daryl like he was a giant teddy bear, and about ten seconds away from bawling her eyes out if she didn’t get to glom onto him.

“Carl talked to you?” Rick asked. He’d found a sitter for Judith, true, but only after he’d spent all afternoon with everyone he met subtly disparaging of his parenting skills, and what little good humor he’d had left was evaporating rapidly.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, and if anything, he pulled away further, even less sure of himself now than he had been ten seconds ago. “Ain’t none of my business, but…” He paused and looked away, then finally looked up at Rick, meeting his gaze for the first time since the conversation began. “He told me he thinks you don’t care ‘bout him anymore.”

“He told you that?” Rick asked, feeling that ice-cold fury Lori had warned him was so frightening settle in. Daryl rocked back on his heels and studied Rick closely, warily. “ _My_ son told _you_ that?”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Daryl snapped, defensive now, like he’d been the first time they met, like he’d so obviously been with Lori. He didn’t know shit about people, Rick realized, but he knew to meet anger with anger, to not back down when someone started pushing him. “I ain’t interested in your family drama, Grimes. Just thought you should know.”

He turned away dismissively, moving away with his head down and his shoulders hunched up like he half-expected Rick to hit him- and Rick suddenly got it, far too late. It had been a peace offering of sorts, fueled by genuine concern, and Rick had all but spat in his face.

“Daryl,” Rick called, suddenly desperate for a chance to apologize, to explain to the other man that he wasn’t normally that much of an asshole, Daryl just always seemed to catch him at the wrong time. But Daryl grabbed his helmet off his bike’s handlebars and studiously ignored Rick. He should’ve left twenty minutes ago, Rick realized, which meant he was waiting for Rick, was willing to be however late he needed to be to talk to him, and that just made the guilt grow deeper.

In Rick’s arms, Judith started to whine, sensing her father’s mood and unhappy herself to see her new friend go. “One of these days, I’m gonna get it right,” Rick said to her as he headed inside, wanting to get her away before Daryl started up the bike’s engine and she spent the next six hours crying.  
Judith looked up at him with her big trusting blue eyes, then attempted to fit her entire fist into her mouth, the best contribution to the conversation either of them had managed.

\-----

_May 26th, 1.08 a.m.  
Hatlin’s Bar, King County_

Last call in Hatlin’s on Saturday nights was at two, about five hours before the wives would be shaking their drooling drunkard husbands awake and dragging them out of bed to suffer their hangovers in gloomy silence in church. Ed Peletier stumbled out of the bar an hour early, wishing he knew which of the cars in the parking lot belonged to that redneck hick bartender so he could piss on its tires. Fucker stole his keys, _again_ , and Ed was getting tired of it.

He stared morosely at his car for a long moment, then turned and staggered away. Normally he’d go for the pay phone at the corner of the building, call that worthless bitch wife of his to come pick him up, but he’d left his wallet in his car and the bartender had flatly refused to let him have his keys long enough to get it out. The fucker had watched him with a tiny smirk on his lips, and Ed would’ve slugged him, had he known which of the two images of the man he was seeing to aim for.

And then would’ve had his jaw promptly broken for his trouble, he might have acknowledged, had he been sober enough. Ed’s normal taste in victims ran significantly smaller than himself, weaker and less likely to fight back, and that redneck was none of the above.

Ed stopped on the curb to light a cigarette- fuck them stupid laws wouldn’t let a man smoke in a damn bar- and carelessly tossed the empty pack into the tree line behind him. Then he started walking again. The night was clear and bright enough that he could easily see the road, and he followed it aimlessly as he smoked, not paying any attention to where he was going, not even noticing he’d taken the wrong turn out of the bar and was heading away from town.

He stopped a good fifteen minutes later, the realization that something was wrong finally fighting its way upstream against the whisky. He looked blearily around at the fields starting to open up around him, then snorted and tossed his cigarette butt away- hope the damn thing started a fire- and turned around.

There was someone on the road behind him.

Somewhere, deep in Ed’s well-pickled brain, was the untapped well of animal instinct every human carried with them. They were all prey animals in the end, and like any prey animal, they knew a predator on sight. _Wrong_ , those instincts insisted- _run_. 

“The fuck’s your problem, jackass?” Ed demanded, anger his natural response to fear. The other person looked wrong, shoulders bunched up and arms too long, the face- there was something very wrong with the face, but Ed couldn’t tell what, not with their head down like that. He- he?- had the long, lithe build of a runner, with grossly out-of-proportion musculature on his arms and shoulders and no neck to speak of.

The head tilted sharply to the side and the other person drew in air, short little sniffs. Then he started moving, heading towards Ed at a shambling walk that quickly picked up speed to a graceful, predatory lope.

_Run_ , those instincts urged Ed again- and Ed saw moonlight reflecting off of wicked dagger-sharp claws and he ran, far too slow, far too late. He felt it on him, a single puff of air on the back of his neck, before his rib cage exploded in agony and he was spun off his feet, his attacker's momentum carrying him a bit further down the road. Ed tried to push himself up but got distracted, his eyes on the white bone and red blood peeking out through the holes torn into his shirt, and he couldn't breathe right.

Then the monster was back, and Ed screamed as he died.


	3. killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I told you to poke me if I took too long? Well, uh... yeah. I'm not happy with this chapter, it's just kind of a lump, but a necessary lump, so we'll just push through it and get on to better stuff soon.

_May 26th, 8.13 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

The pounding on his door dragged him out of bed barely four hours after he’d finally managed to collapse into it, and Daryl grabbed his buck knife off the bedside table as he rolled to his feet. He shrugged on a tank top and dragged on a pair of jeans and staggered out of his bedroom, pushing a hand through the bird’s-nest tangle of his hair as he headed toward the front door.

“The fuck d’ya want?” he demanded as he jerked the door open, half expecting it to be the Grimes kid. Then he froze, because it wasn’t the Grimes kid, or Grimes himself, or even one of Daryl’s other neighbors, come to bitch at him yet again for something.

“Daryl Dixon?” the man at his door asked politely. He was short and slightly rotund and black. The nametag on his shirt, fixed just under his shiny gold badge, said _KENDAL_. There was another man behind him, a scrawny white guy with a mustache only a freshman in high school would be proud of and one hand on his gun like he was just waiting for Daryl to give him a reason.

“Yeah,” he said, keeping his left hand out of sight and carefully dropping the knife behind the door where they wouldn’t see it.

“We’re going to need you to come with us,” Kendal said pleasantly, like he wasn’t all but arresting Daryl. And that just wasn’t _fair_ , because Daryl had been honestly trying for a year and half now, had been paying his bills and keeping to the stupid fucking speed limits and minding every single law and generally behaving like every other sheep-person in this mindless society. This shouldn’t be his life anymore.

“Got a warrant?” he challenged, and Kendal sighed, like Daryl was being unreasonable.

“It will go much better for you if you don’t make us get one,” he said.

Daryl was hardly some clueless civilian, to buy that sort of double-talk. He also knew what sort of hell a small-town sheriff’s department could put him through if they decided to get nasty about it. He shrugged and turned away, grabbing his boots from the living room doorway and pulling them on, leaving the laces untied. He slammed the door shut behind him as he headed out and glanced over at Grimes’ house, half expecting to see the man himself- but the lights were all off in the house and his car was gone from the driveway.

Mustache guy opened the car’s back passenger-side door for him and reached out as if to put a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl recoiled instantly, staying well out of grabbing range and pinning the idiot with a stare that had been known to send monsters running.

“Mr. Dixon,” Kendal said, and Daryl looked at him a bit blankly for a moment- that was his name, but he’d never heard it like that before. “Please,” he added, gesturing towards the patrol car, and Daryl went without protest, making sure to keep well away from the idiot as he did. He started biting at his thumbnail as they closed the door on him and got into the car, an old nervous habit from his hunting days, one he thought he’d left behind.

“Mind tellin’ me what you think I did?” he asked. He wasn’t in cuffs yet- there was always that.

“We’ll leave that for the sheriff,” Kendal said.

“The sheriff?” Daryl echoed, suddenly very concerned. Ashlyn wasn’t a big town, but King County wasn’t so small that the sheriff could take time to talk to every slap-on-the-wrist criminal. They had nothing on him- but they hadn’t had anything on Merle, either, only the knowledge that a crime had been committed and the stubborn belief that ghosts didn’t exist. Merle had filled in the gaps quite nicely.

It was too late to run, but Daryl was hardly going down without a fight. Merle had been injured, and his baby brother had been in police custody- he’d surrendered quietly and bought Daryl the time to get the hell out of Dodge. But here, now, Daryl had nothing to lose. He hunched over low in the seat, picking at the frayed edge of the hole in his jeans over his knee. He’d see what they had and work from there, but no matter what happened, he sure as shit wasn’t taking the fall for something he didn’t do.

\-----

The county was big enough to have its own medical examiner, even if she was only part-time on top of her surgery rotations at King County Memorial Hospital. She had a strong stomach, Rick could give her that much. The EMT she’d tapped into acting as her assistant, however, did not- while he was busy throwing up in the bushes, she came over to talk to Rick.

“You ever seen anything like it?” she asked. Rick spared her a glance, then looked down at the body at his feet. He’d been staring for the past ten minutes, almost hypnotized. This was King County, Georgia, where the great criminal masterminds were the kids smoking pot out behind the high school and the cashier at the liquor store who kept ‘misplacing’ bottles of blue label whisky. This sort of thing _was not_ supposed to happen here. It was somehow offensive to Rick that it had happened.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve seen things like this before, once or twice. Didn’t think I’d be seein’ ‘em here.” The coroner, sensing his melancholy mood, gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm before she went to check on her pro tem assistant, carefully stepping widely around the pool of blood as she went.

What was left of Ed Peletier lay in the center of that blood. His chest had been ripped open, ribs spread like some macabre butterfly, his stomach gutted. Oddly enough, considering the rage of the attack, his face was untouched, his expression twisted into a perfect picture of frozen horror. Rick’s never seen anything like it before- junkies on a paranoid high, battered wives finally snapping- they did serious damage, but not that _sort_ of damage, like an animal savagely ripping into the body, leaving the face intact and the eyes to watch and judge. Rick would even question if the killer were human at all, were it not for the bare, bloody footprints tracking all over the road.

Big feet, a wide well-balanced stride, a big man light on his feet. There was a hint of _something_ in the prints, a twist in the shape, a stride slightly too wide even for running. Rick crouched down over one footprint and traced his fingers along the outside of it, skin dragging and catching over rough asphalt. Behind him, the coroner was talking her assistant through helping her transfer the body to a stretcher lined with a body bag- they were driving the corpse back to town in the ambulance for lack of a better vehicle, and the less people who knew about that, the happier the whole county would be.

“Hey,” the coroner called, and Rick looked up, rocking his weight back and rebalancing himself. “We’re headin’ back to town,” she said, gesturing to the ambulance. “You gonna be here a while?”

“Nah,” Rick said, easing himself back to his feet. They’d already gotten everything- pictures, blood samples, the body- the crime scene tape had been strung up and the rain they were calling for that evening would take care of cleanup. Rick rolled his shoulders and dropped his head back, eyes focused blindly on the wedge of sky showing between the trees towering around them. The moon was still out, fat and washed-out in the bright morning sunlight. “No point in stayin’.”

The coroner nodded to him and got into the ambulance, and Rick turned away, heading back to his cruiser. He almost didn’t want to go- it was ridiculous, nothing had truly changed- but Ashlyn seemed different now, uglier. It had been spoiled, touched by all the things Rick had tried to leave behind. He wanted to go back home and grab his kids and leave, find someplace where evil like this didn’t exist, and the only thing that stopped him doing exactly that was knowing there was no place like that in the whole damned world.

He dropped into the driver’s seat of his car and started the engine and listened to it grumble, his eyes fixed on the blood on the road. Then he slammed the car door shut and drove away, watching the yellow tape fall behind until the curve of the road blocked off his view.

\-----

The Sheriff of King County was a big man, built like the quarterback he had been in high school- led his team to national championship, too, and like most small-town football boys, that had been the highest point of his life to date. He was well into his fifties but he hadn’t let himself go soft with the passing of middle age. His name was Cory Stevenson, Daryl thought- he wasn’t completely sure, he hadn’t voted for him. Daryl had never voted for anything in his life.

He was sitting in what they called it an interview room for over an hour when the sheriff finally decided to grace him with his presence. It was a small white box, brightly lit and uncomfortably chilly, one wall a mirror they no longer bothered pretending was just a mirror. It was an interrogation room with a PC name. Daryl slouched low in his chair at the table, center-stage in the room, his chin resting on his hand. It’d been a busy night and a bad day so far, and it wasn’t looking to get better anytime soon.

“Gon’ tell me what I’m in here for?” Daryl asked as Stevenson closed the door behind him. The sheriff hesitated a moment, then pulled out the chair opposite Daryl and sat down.

“You work at Hatlin’s Bar, correct?” Stevenson asked blandly. He had a manila file folder in one hand, and Daryl stared at it unhappily when he placed it on the table without opening it or taking anything out of it.

“Yeah,” Daryl said as he sat back in his chair, body leaning away from the other man, hands curled into loose fists and resting on the edge of the table, ready to react.

“I’ve had a chat with a few of your customers,” Stevenson said, and Daryl scoffed.

“My customers?” he echoed. “It’s nine in the mornin’, my _customers_ ain’t awake yet.”

Stevenson eyed him, coldly angry with the interruption, and when Daryl subsided, he continued. “What about Ed Peletier?”

“He call you guys and bitch ‘cause I made him walk home?” Daryl asked, instantly furious. Ed rubbed Daryl all the wrong ways- talking trash about his wife, his knuckles always bruised and split and no marks on him to show the other person ever fought back- he reminded Daryl in vivid Technicolor of his old man, and Daryl loathed him for it, stood up to him and pushed back like he never could with his father.

“So you don’t deny you had an altercation with the man?” Stevenson asked, and Daryl scoffed again. Big fucking words, trying to impress the high school dropout with his education- only Daryl wasn’t impressed, Daryl knew things this small-town asshole would never dream of, big words or no.

“He was drunk,” he said softly. “He got loud. I told him I was cuttin’ him off, he got mean. I took his keys so he wouldn’t kill someone drivin’ home, an’ he left.”

“Just like that?” Stevenson asked. “He got loud, he got mean, and then he just… _left_?”

“Not his style to pick a fight with someone who’ll fight back,” Daryl said. He almost said _you talk to his wife yet_ , just in case the sheriff didn’t catch his drift, but he held off- that wasn’t his concern, wasn’t his business. People in her position didn’t need to be saved, they needed to wake up, and that was something they could only do for themselves.

“Oh we’re talking to her,” the sheriff said. “And I know about the history of alleged domestic abuse. I’m more interested in this.”

He took a paper out of the folder and slapped it onto the table- a full-page picture, the gloss finish reflecting the light so bad Daryl couldn’t make anything out until he picked it up. He dropped it again almost immediately. “The fuck is this?”

“Ed Peletier,” the sheriff said. “Or, rather, what’s left of him.” He slid the picture over closer to himself, then paused. “Oh, wait,” he said, falsely surprised. “Wrong one. Here.” He took another picture out of the folder and slid it across the table to Daryl, where it stopped when it ran into his arm, sharp edge digging into his skin. Daryl stared at him, suddenly furious and not caring how stupid it made him, ignoring the picture entirely.

“This,” Stevenson said as he picked up the first picture and looked at it, “is Sparrow Wilkinson. But you already knew that, didn’t you.”

Daryl was soft in ways Merle never was. He remembered every name, every face- all the ones he failed, all the ones who died on his watch. Sparrow had been a sweet girl, all big brown eyes and perfectly smooth chocolaty skin and flyaway curls, with a tattoo of music notes that morphed into birds flying up the outer curve of her arm. She’d died the day everything went wrong in Hattiesburg, died screaming and bloody and reaching for help, reaching for Daryl.

He would remember her until the day he died, and the last thing he needed was this smug, self-satisfied idiot throwing her in his face.

“I called Hattiesburg PD,” Stevenson continued, blithely ignoring Daryl’s simmering rage. “You know, making sure they’d caught the right brother? They sent me that picture.” He reached across the table and picked up the second picture, the one Daryl was still ignoring, and held them both up side-by-side, comparing them. “They do look remarkably similar,” he said. “Easy enough to forget which one’s which.”

Daryl leaned forward in his chair and snatched Sparrow’s picture away, putting it face-down on the table and placing his hands protectively over it.

“I never killed anyone,” he said, soft and deadly, the prowling tiger to Stevenson’s hissing kitten. “And if you really talked to my _customers_ , you already know that.”

“How’s that?” Stevenson asked flatly.

“ ‘Cause if I’d stopped servin’ ‘em drinks long enough to go kill Ed, they’d’ve noticed,” Daryl said, just as flat. He pushed his chair back with a long scrape and stood- he knew the game now, knew why he was there. They were trying to rattle him with the pictures from Hattiesburg, the memories of his twenty-four-plus hours in the Hattiesburg PD interrogation room. They had nothing but small-town suspicions that a murderer's brother must be just as evil, and had hoped to shock some sort of confirming reaction out of him before he clammed up. “You wanna talk to me again, best have a warrant,” he said as he strode over to the door and threw it open. The door bounced back, juttering on its hinges from the impact as it slammed into someone in the hallway outside. Daryl slid through the gap and looked over and locked gazes with Rick fucking Grimes, in full Sheriff’s Deputy uniform including that stupid fucking hat, his eyes going wide with surprise, before Daryl turned and stormed away.

Out in the main area, in the neat row of desks, one deputy was sitting with a timid little mouse of a woman, grey hair cropped short, eyes wide and bruised and hollow. She looked up and flinched away from meeting Daryl’s gaze, and Daryl saw himself in her and knew she was the widow Peletier, and he wanted to go over to her and comfort her, promise her that it would only get better from here on out, that this was the best thing that could ever happen to her and he can say of that and know it’s true because he’s been there himself.

Instead he turned away, away from those small-town people and their small-town prejudices and fears, and pushed his way out into the front lobby, past the receptionist’s desk, and out the front door.

“ _Hey_ ,” a voice snapped behind him, impatient with being ignored- Grimes had been on his heels the whole way out and stood now in the station entryway as Daryl paced away. He had no way to get home, since he sure as shit wasn’t asking any of these assholes for a ride and it was a thirty minute walk. He was still exhausted and pissed and simmering with fury and sickened grief- over Sparrow, over Merle, over every single person he’s ever lost, and damned if that wasn’t a long list.

“The fuck do you want?” he demanded, turning on Grimes, vicious and quick, turning like a striking snake. If Grimes were close enough, Daryl would’ve snapped already and taken a swing at him and gotten himself arrested for real.

Grimes glanced over his shoulder and took a step forward, letting the door latch shut behind him. He met Daryl’s gaze steadily, and it was like being hit head-on by a semi, leaving him pinned in place and helpless beneath its weight. Rick Grimes had an unwavering air of authority and Daryl had always yielded to men like him, and he couldn’t stop himself doing it again to save his own life.

“I can give you a lift, ‘less you plan on walking home,” Grimes said, tone calm and reassuring, almost hypnotic. Daryl stared at him, still not happy, but Grimes was within reach now and he still hadn’t broken the man’s jaw, so he finally ducked his head and nodded once. He could tolerate a ten minute car ride with the man. “All right then,” Grimes said, and moved away, heading towards one of the police cruisers parked in the lot, and after a long moment Daryl turned and moved after him.

\-----

If Rick was frustrated with his colleagues- and he was, don’t get him wrong- that was nothing compared to Daryl, who simmered with a fury that was almost visible, rising off him like heat waves off asphalt on a hot summer afternoon. He slammed the car door shut hard enough to rock the entire vehicle and planted his foot on the dashboard, his knee against his chest and his body curled into a loose comma, sunk low in his seat and glaring out the window like a pissed-off teenager being dragged home after staying out past curfew. 

Rick bit his tongue and said nothing- nothing to say that wouldn’t get him punched, anyways- and watched the other man instead. They were within touching distance for the first time since they’d met; Rick was a tactile person but Daryl most certainly was not, leery and watchful, swinging out away from anyone who got too close. He certainly was a picture, all hunched up in the passenger’s seat, the sun glinting off shards of red in his hair and catching on the silver threading his stubble and lighting his pale eyes up like white neon. He had some serious scars on him, Rick could see them clearly now, revealed by his sleeveless shirt- on his shoulders and back, a thick line under the wing of his collarbone. There was a pale spiderweb of scars just above his left elbow that looked like a dog or something had chewed on him, the marks thin and faded with age, hardly noticeable compared to the rest.

“You the good cop, then?” he said suddenly. Rick, who had been slightly mesmerized by the way one of those faint scars stretched lightning-jagged over the curve of his bicep, jerked away and realized the light he’d been stopped at had cycled through red, into green, and on into yellow when he wasn’t looking. Daryl was too busy sulking to notice, thankfully.

“How’s that?” Rick asked, sparing the other man a quick glance as he stepped off the brake and zoomed through the yellow-turning-red light. Daryl turned his head to look at him, one strand of hair curling over his left eye and catching on his lashes as he blinked.

“What happened to Ed?” he asked quietly, and Rick’s hand curled tight around the steering wheel until it creaked.

“Someone ripped into him,” he said. “Tore him up pretty good.” He spared a single glance to the foot Daryl had propped up on the dashboard, his boot ragged and worn and stained with mud. The man only owned one pair of boots, near as Rick could tell- but the killer had been barefoot, so that meant nothing.

“I didn’t kill him,” Daryl said quietly, his voice gone rough. “I might’ve roughed him up a little if he tried to start somethin’, but he ain’t worth the time.”  
“You didn’t hear anything?” Rick asked, careful now, coaxing him out. “No screaming, car engines, nothing?”

“Nah,” Daryl said, shaking his head a little. “Wasn’t listenin’ for anything, though. And a bar full of drunk men ain’t exactly quiet.”

And the body had been far enough away from the bar that Rick hadn’t honestly expected anything different. “Anybody leave just after Ed?”

Daryl snorted at that. “You’re at a bar that late, you’re there ‘til they kick you out at closing,” he said. He spared Rick a single, quick glance, then shifted in his seat. “Guess you wouldn’t know that,” he muttered.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Rick snapped, voice gone cold, and Daryl went rigid and instantly retreated, the almost peaceful atmosphere shattering as each man pulled away. Rick gritted his teeth at the sudden silence and slammed the heel of one hand down on the upper curve of the steering wheel, sensing more than seeing Daryl start at the noise. He twisted the wheel and pulled the car over on the side of the road- they were in a housing subdivision by now, a handful of blocks away from their street. Rick shifted the car into park and let it idle, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, and the words caught like rusty fishhooks in his throat, not wanting to come out, but there they were. Daryl, who honestly looked about two seconds from bolting, scowled at him in confusion.

“Sorry for what?” he asked. He was tense, coiled in tight on himself, prepared for anything.

“Everything,” Rick said, the words coming easier as he spoke. “This morning, Lori, everything I’ve ever said to you- I’m sorry. We got off to a bad start and I’ve only ever made it worse.”

Daryl said nothing, still watching Rick like a mouse might watch a cat it had been cornered by. Rick sighed and shifted out of park and pulled back onto the road proper, very efficiently shut down, feeling like a twelve-year-old boy that had just been scolded in public.

“And thank you,” he added, a few minutes later when it occurred to him. “For talking to me about Carl. I know I wasn’t…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish that. He was never one for talking- that had always been Lori, and that had been part of why things had gone to shit with his marriage, because they had just never found a good way to communicate.

At least Daryl had stopped staring at him, even if he was still glancing over every few seconds, trying to gage Rick’s mood. Finally, right when Rick was about to give up hope of ever having a civil relationship with the man, he said, “So his mom ain’t local?”

“No,” Rick said, almost relieved. “No, she’s in Atlanta.”

Daryl made a noise like _huh_ , and said nothing else, and Rick allowed himself to hope- they weren’t out of the woods yet, but Rick’s house was rolling into view over the slight hill in the road, and they hadn’t killed each other yet- 

There was someone standing in his garage.

Rick instinctively slammed on the brakes, the force of the sudden stop jerking Daryl’s upper body forward, his knee jamming against his solar plexus and driving all the air out of his lungs in an audible _oomph_. He wheezed while Rick blinked and looked again, because the person was gone. It hadn’t been Carl, it had been a full-grown man, tall and broad-shouldered. He shook his head a little and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again and watched as the light in the garage flickered madly. He was tired, was all, tired and stressed, his eyes playing tricks on him.

“You lookin’ at somethin’?” Daryl asked. He was sitting in the seat properly now, feet on the floorboard, the heel of one hand rubbing absently against his chest.

“Thought I saw- something,” Rick said, catching himself before he could say anything too worrying. “Sorry,” he added, stepping on the gas once more, easing the car into a slow crawl down the road. He pulled into his driveway, figuring Daryl would hardly mind walking the extra ten feet.

Daryl said nothing, just opened his door and swung himself out of the car before it had even stopped moving completely. He didn’t stop or look back as he loped across the yard to his house, didn’t give Rick any hint as to their standing with each other. Rick watched him go, then looked back at his garage, trying to remember if he’d even opened it this morning, or if Carl was up and about. Neither of them spent much time out in the garage- the giant stack of boxes was depressing to Rick and he hadn’t yet felt any pressing need to sort through any of it, and Carl had spent most of his days here so far in perpetual search of a Wi-Fi hotspot.

Rick leaned forward, folding his arms over the steering wheel, then turned his head sharply as he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye- but it was only Daryl, standing by his porch, his eyes on Rick’s house with a watchful, thoughtful expression on his face. He turned and took the three porch stairs in one bound and disappeared inside his house without looking back, and Rick stared after him. He was a cop with a cop’s instincts- he knew when there was more to the story than he was being told.

He looked back at his house- suddenly so still, so dark, so ominous in the bright morning sunlight- and wondered.


	4. salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late-ish. Another lump. This one didn't wanna get written, so I had to wrangle it a bit. next chapter will be better, I promise. And, as an added bonus, the more interesting the chapters are, the faster I write them, so there ya go.

_May 27th, 9.41 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

The letter had clearly been opened, read through, and stuffed back in the envelope at least twice before it had reached its intended recipient’s hands, but Daryl was used to that. Merle didn’t have much in the ways of communications freedoms anymore- price of being a convicted murderer. He wasn’t allowed Internet access, but he was allowed one call a week, which at first had always gone to Daryl, although that had stopped fairly quickly when it became apparent the two brothers didn’t really have anything to talk about. Even the letters had grown shorter and less frequent, mostly just Merle checking in and making sure Daryl was still alive.

Daryl looked at Merle’s latest letter, sitting unfolded on the kitchen table, written in Merle’s spectacularly crappy left-handed writing. Then he looked at his own replying letter, on which he’d gotten as far as _Hey bro_. After a long moment, he reached out and grabbed the mostly-blank paper and crumpled it into a ball. What was he supposed to say, that if the local cops had their way, he’d be joining Merle soon? That his neighbor’s house was haunted and he was such a soft-hearted moron he was going to try to fix it? That the civilian life was driving him slowly insane?

He tossed the paper ball in the direction of the trash can and got up, picked up the laptop and grabbed a beer out of the fridge and headed outside to the front porch. The King County Times had converted the whole of its archive to digital as of the previous September. Daryl logged onto the site and dug into the back issues as he opened his beer. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he typed _murder_ in the search field before hitting enter. Anything violent enough to create a spirit would’ve been front-page news in a town like this.

The first article that popped up was the one from that very morning. 

_Family Man Murdered in King County_ the title declared, and Daryl nearly spat his beer across the screen. Hatlin’s was mentioned as ‘an establishment Mr. Peletier frequented’, and Daryl was mentioned too, though not by name- ‘police are pursuing leads and have already questioned one suspect’- typical small-town sensationalist bullshit. The article went out of its way to point out that Ed had been found by a family on their way to church, and slipped in a few sideways digs at how bars were harmful to the moral fabric of towns like Ashlyn, and Ed probably wouldn’t be dead if he’d been home minding his family instead of out drinking.

Daryl skimmed the article with increasing disdain. Family man, his _ass_. Ed had been as much a family man as Daryl’s father. Annoyed now, feeling yesterday’s simmering fury start to stir up again, he backed up to the search page and scrolled all the way down to the bottom, burying himself in the problems of people half a century dead.

By the time he’d reached the 2000s, he’d found nothing about the Grimes house, or any house in their neighborhood. He lost interest when he hit 2003- if anything had happened in the last decade, the entire town would be whispering about it behind Grimes’ back, clucking their tongues and wondering aloud if the poor man knew, and social outcast or not, Daryl would’ve heard something of it. Finally he shut the laptop and set it aside, turning sideways to rest his back against the porch railing, legs stretched out in front of him. He finished off his now-warm beer with a grimace and tilted his head back, letting it thump against the bannister. Then he dropped his chin to his chest and stared at Grimes’ house, at the sliver of darkness he could see inside the open garage. 

Like any good hunter, Michonne kept her place well-stocked with salt- a cardboard flat loaded with boxes of table salt in one of the kitchen cabinets, a stack of bags of rock salt in the garage. In their world, salt was a staple, as necessary as air- something about the impurity of spirits and certain creatures and the purifying nature of salt, Daryl never got into the religious aspects of it all, but something about the salt was repellant to spirits and all other varieties of undead critters. He’d never seen a spirit yet could cross a salt line, and while he doubted Grimes wouldn’t notice a line of salt across his driveway, Daryl could at least keep the spirit out of the house proper. He fished one of the boxes of table salt out of the cabinet and headed across the yards, ducking into the garage with predatory grace.

It was the work of seconds to draw an inch-thick line in salt spanning the base of the door inside, connecting the line wall-to-wall, tucking it as close to the doorframe as possible so it wouldn’t be noticed. He pocketed the box of salt and brushed his hands off and turned the light on as he ducked out again, walking easily to his porch, a casual pace intended not to attract attention with its furtiveness. He deposited the salt on the kitchen counter and got a second beer out of the fridge- he normally didn’t break into the beer this early in the morning, but Hatlin’s was closed until the police concluded their investigation, so his day was entirely his own for the first time in a year and he was enjoying it. He imagined the novelty would wear off in a day or so.

He settled down by his bike this time, far enough down his driveway to give him a decent view into the Grimes’ garage. It took a while, but finally, the lightbulb in the garage started flickering madly, then exploded in a sudden burst of light and glittering glass and tangible fury, and Daryl smiled.

\-----

_May 28th, 2.23 p.m.  
King County Sheriff’s Department_

In deference to the workplace and the general mood of the day, Rick had turned his phone to silent, and so could honestly claim to have missed the first few calls. Eight in a row, however, was pushing it- too much more of this and Lori would be driving out there to have this conversation face-to-face. He eased himself to his feet and ducked out of the bullpen- he was riding the desk that day, the in-house deputy so there was always someone with a badge present- and into the hallway to the locker rooms.

“So I heard about the other day,” Lori said in greeting. “A murder in sleepy little Ashlyn? How exciting.”

“First in eight years,” Rick said mildly, refusing to rise to the bait of her sarcasm. “Want me to tell you Atlanta’s murder rate?”

“No, thank you,” Lori said, just as mild, a new page in their lingering war. She paused, then added, very simply, “Rick…”

“He was drunk, walking down a road alone in the woods in the middle of the night,” Rick said. He’d been married to Lori for seventeen years, he knew how she thought. “It’s safer here than it is there.”

“There was a _murder_ ,” Lori hissed, finally starting to lose some of her cool.

Rick started to say something, then cut himself off with a groan and rubbed his hand over his chin. This was getting them nowhere, just going in endless circles. A murder in sleepy little Ashlyn seemed more real, more dangerous, than a hundred murders in busy big Atlanta. Hell, Rick lived next door to their first suspect. Thankfully none of the papers or news reports had mentioned Daryl by name, or Lori would already be out there, packing up the kids’ bags with a kitchen knife in her hand and her eyes on the windows.

“You think I can’t protect my own children?” he asked, and if Lori had ever thought she’d seen him go cold before, that was nothing compared to now.  
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Lori said. She sighed, and for one blinding moment Rick could see her perfectly, her hand pushing her hair out of her face, her body angled toward the kitchen window, the sunlight turning her hair gold and her eyes green as jade, and something twisted deep and painful within Rick’s chest.

Another image slid to mind, newer than any memory of Lori, red instead of gold and pale blue instead of hazel, defined muscle and scars in place of soft curves and smooth skin. Rick shook his head, chasing the image away, and frowned- where the hell had that come from?

“We need to talk about this,” Lori was saying, her voice distant, filtering through his distraction. “I’ll drive out there after work and we can talk about this face-to-face. All right?”

Rick wanted to groan loud and theatrical like a teenager, he wanted to put his head in his hands and say _no_. But that wouldn’t change the fact that Lori was the mother of his children, and she’d protect her children as a mother should. Rick had loved her once, wholly and completely and unquestioningly. He didn’t know what happened to that, how dealing with her became a chore, but he could pretend for one night, for old times’ sake.

He rubbed tiredly at his forehead, tracing his hand through his hair- his fingers caught on tangles and dragged the curls out until the very tips were nearly brushing the collar of his shirt. Before the divorce, Lori would have been on him to cut his hair, probably would’ve sat him down in the kitchen and cut it herself by this point. He’d have to shave before she got there, maybe call Carl and try to coax him into doing a load of laundry so he’d have fresh clean clothes to change into. He didn’t particularly care if Lori thought he looked like a hobo, but he wasn’t having her thinking he’d completely forgotten how to care of himself.

“All right,” he said finally, grudgingly, and Lori sighed happily.

“All right,” she agreed, sounding surprised and relieved both, and perhaps apprehensive as well- this was not going to be a happy reunion, that was for damn sure. They should’ve gotten a custody arrangement, but they’d been so sure they could make it work, could be civil people about the whole thing- but there was something uncivil and vicious boiling up close to the surface in Rick, and he wasn’t letting _anyone_ take his children away from him, not even their own mother.

“I’ll see you then,” he said, and hung up on her, and even if it was completely rude, at least he’d managed to get that line out without sounding like a serial killer. He blew his breath out and dropped his head, staring at the bland grey station carpeting between his boots.

This wasn’t going to end well.

\-----

The new car in Grimes’ driveway was familiar enough to give Daryl pause, even if it took him a long moment to place it. When he did, he swore to himself and backed up, retracing his steps up the driveway, aiming for the safety of his garage-

“Hey,” a voice called, and Daryl stopped moving and closed his eyes and rode out the urge to bolt, then turned his head and looked. The Grimes kid was sitting in the yard, perfectly situated on the wavy dividing line between the properties- wavy because Daryl had been the last one to mow his lawn, and he hadn’t yet mastered the concept of pushing the stupid lawn mower in a straight line. “My mom’s here,” the kid said, pointlessly, considering Daryl had stared at her car for a solid ten seconds.

“Yeah,” Daryl said awkwardly. He wasn’t so good at the small-talk thing. He stared blankly around, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “They fighting again?” he asked helplessly, feeling stupid because of course they were- that was what parents did, in his experience, if one wasn’t terrified of the other.

“No,” the kid said. “They’re actually getting along. I think that’s even worse.”

Something unpleasant twisted in Daryl’s gut at the kid’s words, picturing Rick and his pretty ex-wife sitting at the kitchen table and- hell, he didn’t know what civilized people talked over- sipping tea out of delicate china or something. Lori Grimes wasn’t the sort of woman to take a beer and pull up a porch step, that was for damn sure. It felt something like betrayal, Daryl realized- so much for that none-too-smooth apology the other day. Sorry for everything, his ass.

“Look, kid, your folks ain’t gonna like-” he began, irritated and tired and suddenly just done with the whole world, but the kid lunged to his feet in a sudden display of righteous teenage fury.

“Carl!” he yelled, and the entire neighborhood seemed to pause for a moment, breath caught, before the kid relaxed a little and the world spun on. “My name is Carl,” he said quietly, defeated, and then he flopped back down and ripped up a handful of grass and let it flutter, one blade at a time, back to the ground.

Common sense said now was a fine time to go back inside, and for a moment Daryl did indeed waver towards his house- then he sighed and moved towards the kid instead, sitting down a few feet away, careful to stay on his side of the line. Carl looked up at him, light blue eyes- his father’s eyes- alight with suspicion.

“What’s wrong this time?” Daryl asked, and internally winced at the confrontational tone and words. Carl either didn’t notice or was too grateful for the unexpected audience to care.

“That stupid frea-” he stammered, slid to a halt mid-word, spared Daryl a single glance. “Fucking murder,” he finished with the expectant air of someone who had just stepped on a landmine and had no other choice than to pray it was a dud. Daryl waited him out, patient, and after a moment Carl continued, “Mom wants to take me’n Judith back to Atlanta with her.”

“Thought that’s what you wanted,” Daryl said. Carl ripped up another handful of grass and Daryl watched him, watched the blades of grass slip between his fingers. After a moment he leaned over, plucking two particularly tall blades from Grimes’ side of the line, and started folding them roughly together.

“I dunno,” Carl said, throwing his handful of grass at the ground.

“Then what do you want?” Daryl asked, feeling stupid and pointless and lost. He had no frame of reference, no common ground with this kid- by the time he was Carl’s age, his mom had been dead for half his life, his brother had been out of the picture for almost as long, and his father had a long-established pattern alternating between dragging Daryl along on weekend hunts and throwing him at dangerous shit like chupacabras and just skipping the middleman and beating the shit out of Daryl himself. He couldn’t imagine a life where his biggest problem was that his parents loved him too much to let him go.

“I dunno,” Carl said again, uselessly. Daryl made an impatient noise and threw his twine of grass aside.

“Figure it out,” he said gruffly, pushing himself up. He walked away, rolling his eyes when he heard the kid scramble to his feet and dart after him.

“Did your parents get divorced?” Carl asked, and Daryl snorted, something dark and morbid rising in his throat.

“No,” he said, when he could trust himself not to laugh at the poor kid. Carl didn’t need an in-depth explanation as to how fucked up his childhood had been.  
“It’s stupid,” Carl said. “They fight over stupid stuff. And Mom acts like it’s all Dad’s fault and it’s _not_.” 

Daryl stopped at his garage, Carl close enough on his heels that the kid literally ran into him. He backed off fast as Daryl turned around.

“Why are you tellin’ me all this?” Daryl asked. “I don’t care. Tell _them_.” He pointed towards Grimes’ house.

“Why’d you ask what’s wrong if you don’t care?” Carl demanded, and Daryl hesitated, lost for an answer. He had asked, had voluntarily invited himself into this mess.

“I dunno,” he said, echoing Carl’s earlier answers. He sunk into himself a little bit, shoulders up and body slouching. “I don’t wanna hear ‘bout your parents,” he said after a moment, and instantly felt like a teenager.

“Fine,” Carl said, just as sulky. “We can talk about something else. Did you really kill that guy?”

Daryl turned his head and stared down at the kid, a long measuring stare. Somewhere deep within him, a small trace of amusement rose to the surface, and perhaps a touch impressed as well. Not everyone had the guts to look him in the eye and ask that- as a matter of fact, no one had, not even the sheriff.

“No,” he said finally, and Carl grinned, a tiny quicksilver flash of upturned lips, and he was opening his mouth to ask something else when a trundling noise cut him off. They both turned to watch as Grimes’ garage door opened halfway, stuttered, started to close again, then stopped and rolled back up until it was all the way open.

“It does that sometimes,” Carl said, and there was something new in his voice, a layer of wariness and almost even fear. He started back over towards his house and Daryl instantly followed, politely overlooking how the kid looked back constantly, checking to make sure Daryl really was behind him. He paused at the dividing line between the properties, then pulled himself up straight, visibly gathering his courage.

“Dad?” he called out, walking over to the driveway. Daryl stuck with him- he had no idea what he planned to do if something did happen, as trying to fight a spirit bare-handed was a good way to die horribly, but it felt wrong to let the kid go over there by himself. Instinct was by far one of the best weapons a hunter had, and it was plain the kid was in-tune enough with his to be freaked out. “Dad?” Carl called again, and when there was no answer, he leaned over, trying to peer into the garage without actually going anywhere near it.

“Carl?” someone else called, and Daryl swore and retreated several steps, turning away and ducking his head so his hair hid his face. He strode away quickly, just shy of a run, not wanting to seem like he was running away but preferring that by far than suffering through a second encounter with Lori Grimes. “Carl!” she called again, a whip-crack this time, and Daryl looked back to see the kid hard on his heels, having followed after his source of protection in Daryl’s hasty retreat from the unknown danger of the garage.

“We’re just hanging out,” Carl protested instantly, turning to face his mother, who was standing on the front porch. Daryl kept his head down and said nothing.  
“Uh uh,” Lori said, and Carl made that godawful teenage whine noise, and Daryl started moving away again. Spirits didn’t scare him as much as a mother on a rampage, and he already knew well Lori’s opinion of him. He’d deal with the spirit later, when the Grimes family collective was gone.  
For now, he tucked his tail firmly between his legs and bolted for safety.

\-----

The forecast called for a big storm in Atlanta, which about matched Rick’s mood- but it also meant he couldn’t send Lori home. She was a bad driver, especially in adverse conditions, and he couldn’t get over that vague fear that if he made her leave now, he’d be sending her off to her death. So he showed her the guest bedroom, currently complete with Judith’s crib, and left her to scrounge up something to make for dinner out of the contents of his kitchen and headed outside.

It was raining, King County close enough to catch the fringe of the storm over Atlanta, and dark enough to be dreary, like the scene for some Edgar Allen Poe poem. Rick leaned against the porch railing and sighed, then looked over to Daryl’s house instinctively. It was dark, a single light on in what was presumably Daryl’s bedroom upstairs- but after a moment, Rick’s dark-blinded eyes adjusted and he saw the faint cherry-red glow of the lit tip of a cigarette. Another moment, and he could see Daryl’s silhouette, sprawled loose and boneless across the porch like always, like gravity was heavier on him than anyone else.

For a moment Rick debated with himself- then he shook his head and turned to head down the porch stairs. He’d had a long, icily polite conversation with Lori about setting up a custody arrangement, and while talking with Daryl might be a different sort of hell, at least it would be brief.

“Hey,” he said as he stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs. Daryl had watched him approach, lazy and keen-eyed like a fat cat, light from the nearby streetlight shining off his eyes. He said nothing, did nothing, just let Rick flounder. “I wanted to tell you we cleared you,” Rick said.

That got a reaction, a sharp turn of the head, a slight movement as Daryl lifted himself up a bit. “What?” he asked, and his voice was still lazy and loose even though he’d just gone on-point like a hunting dog.

“The bar owner had a camera installed to watch the cash register, make sure his employees weren’t stealin’,” Rick said. “There’s a recording of you at the bar at the time of the murder. You’re cleared.”

“Took you two and a half days to figure that out?” Daryl asked. “The hell kinda cops are you?”

Rick nodded and sighed and turned away- he hadn’t honestly expected better. Then he stopped and turned back. “What did Carl say to you earlier, this afternoon?” he asked, unhappy. Apparently these days his son preferred talking to the next-door neighbor, the _murder suspect_ , cleared or not, rather than his own father.

“Divorce stuff,” Daryl said. “Nothin’ new.” He blew out a billow of smoke and stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray at his elbow, then stood. “You want a beer?” he offered. “Or you goin’ back over?”

There was the air of a challenge in those simple words, expectations about to be let down- and Daryl wouldn’t meet his gaze anymore, instead looking anywhere but at Rick, already anticipating the rejection of his offer.

“Sure, I’ll take a beer,” Rick said, and Daryl looked up at him, surprised. Then he rolled to his feet and wandered inside, and Rick took the chance to come up onto the porch, out of the rain. He was shaking the water droplets off his hair when Daryl came back out, two bottles of beer in his hand. He held one out to Rick and dropped back onto the ground in his familiar sprawl after Rick took it. For a moment Rick hesitated, but the feeling of being tested hadn’t abated, so he sat down too, keeping well away from Daryl so as to not infringe on his generous personal space.

“She freaked out from the murder?” Daryl asked, gesturing vaguely towards Lori’s car.

“She’s their mother,” Rick said mildly. “She’s allowed to worry.”

“You gonna tell her I’m not gonna murder y’all in your sleep?” Daryl asked, and Rick accepted the slight dig as well deserved.

“She never even knew you were a suspect,” Rick said. It probably hadn’t even occurred to her- he’d expected an explosion earlier, when she’d brought Carl in and told Rick their son had been _hanging out_ with the neighbor, but she’d been surprisingly calm about the whole thing, too distracted by the whole custody arrangement thing to focus on her dislike of Daryl. Murderers were inhuman monsters, not next-door neighbors with motorcycles and an unfortunate smoking habit.

“Huh,” Daryl said, and drank his beer in silence, watching the rain drip off the eaves.

After a while, when Rick’s beer was gone, he sighed and stood up and stretched. “Did the people who lived in my house before me have problems with the garage door?” he asked.

“ ‘S a safe neighborhood, don’t worry about it,” Daryl replied, his words coming too fast, his tone too intense, for casual conversation. Rick looked over at the other man curiously, but Daryl seemed to have realized he’d slipped up and shut down, not freezing over but not as cautiously comfortable as he had been moments before. He rolled his beer bottle between his hands, his fingers absently picking at the label corner peeling up from the condensation-wet glass.

“Right,” Rick said. “Well, thanks for the beer.”

Daryl made a noise of agreement and refused to look up at him, the loose label suddenly a matter demanding his complete attention, and Rick headed back out into the rain, feeling like he’d missed something major. It was a surprisingly familiar feeling, where Daryl Dixon was involved.

Lori was rattling around in the kitchen, commanding Carl with the panache of a four-star general addressing her troops, so Rick let them be, heading instead into the living room where Judith was in her playpen. She cooed at him, and Rick reached down and brushed his fingers against his cheek, smiling when she caught one of his fingers with both her hands and squealed happily, so proud of herself. She wasn’t going back to Atlanta with her mother, but it had been a close call, and Rick wasn’t sure what her future held, if he was going to feature in it more than once or twice a year. It honestly scared him, to think that that was all he might see of his baby girl.

He listened to the sound of Lori in the kitchen, Carl setting the table and asking which side the forks went on, Judith next to him happily playing with his fingers- a mockery of a family- and tasted beer and remembered the sound of rain and wanted nothing more in that second than to go back over there, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.


	5. heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, lookie here, I updated early. A long-ish chapter and a fast update as an apology for the last couple of chapters. The next one won't be up as quick, but they're coming faster now, so huzzah.
> 
> Also, fans of Supernatural will see that I have taken the monster of this fic straight from Supernatural's canon version, with very few alterations. This is where the Supernatural influence is strongest, but again, you don't actually have to watch that show to understand what's going on, as all is explained, or will be soon.

_May 30th, 3.15 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

 

“So are you coming in to work tonight?” Daryl’s boss asked, sounding only mildly curious- Thursday nights were hardly packed with customers, and the notoriety of the nearby murder would either kill what little business they normally got, or attract a whole different crowd of people. The wrong kind of people.

Daryl tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, still pecking away at his laptop keyboard like a bird tapping for worms, spelling out his neighbor’s name in the Google search bar. “Yeah, sure,” he said, then added, “The cops finally get off our ass?”

His boss made a disinterested noise, like he didn’t really care one way or the other. “Be on time,” he said- as if Daryl was ever late- and abruptly hung up. Daryl snorted and tossed his phone aside, about as interested in that conversation as the other man had been, and clicked on the first link.

After a good bit of Google-fu and filter refining and skimming newspaper articles, Daryl felt he had a good grasp of the events. Rick Grimes, it seemed, had left Atlanta somewhat in shame. In August of 2012, his partner, Shane Walsh, got himself killed trying to prevent a drug store robbery. Several papers- the more sensationalist ones, preferring to focus on the thrill of human drama and not letting themselves be bogged down by something as boring as the truth- made a big fuss about how Rick’s marriage had fallen apart shortly after. According to the rags, he’d fled to King County in January in total disgrace after being drummed out of Atlanta PD, having got his childhood friend and career-long partner killed through his own carelessness.

The Rick Grimes Daryl had met didn’t seem like a man struggling to live under that burden of guilt. There was more going on here than the media had been privy to, no surprise.

Daryl chewed absently at his cuticle as he stared at the laptop screen. Big-city cops tended to have a lot of bodies behind them, but so far Shane was pulling Daryl’s vote as most likely to be the spirit. Violent death, feelings of unjustness, Grimes held to blame- warranted or not- it was classic spirit material.

Now for the big question- how the hell could the spirit of a man who died in Atlanta be haunting a man in a town an hour’s drive away? 

Daryl lifted his head at the now-familiar rumbling of Grimes’ garage door opening, the sound filtering through the open windows in the kitchen. Grimes was pulling insane hours right now, and his kid had taken to disappearing all day, hanging out god knew where- but as prime an opportunity as this was, Daryl’s options were limited. Hunters took care of spirits by burning their bones, their anchors to this world, and he highly doubted Grimes had his friend’s body stashed somewhere in his garage. That, of course, was assuming it even was Walsh.

He needed to know exactly what had gone down in Atlanta, which meant cozying up to one or the other of the Grimes boys, which would only be incredibly suspicious and extremely unlikely to work.

“Fuck it,” Daryl decided abruptly, pushing the laptop aside. He grabbed the salt container out of the cupboard again and headed for the front door- short-term solutions would have to do for now.

Fun times.

 

\-----

_June 3rd, 8.48 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

 

Rick was almost asleep when his phone let out a sudden, grating blare of noise. As he’d been resting with his head on the kitchen table, the phone was in close proximity to his ear, and Rick nearly leapt out of his chair at the sudden noise. He braced both hands on the table and leaned forward, bowing his head and simply breathing through the adrenalin surge.

Sheriff Stevenson was on a tear, furious at the lack of results from their investigation- a sloppy, mishandled investigation, in Rick’s opinion, but that wasn’t what Stevenson was interested in hearing- and had been holding his deputies personally responsible. He’d cancelled all days off and kept them at the station long after their shifts were over. It wouldn’t have been tolerated in Atlanta- but as everyone was so fond of reminding him, Rick wasn’t in Atlanta anymore. He’d kept his mouth shut and his head down and weathered the storm, following the leads of the other deputies, even if the treatment was massively unfair and borderline illegal.

Rick had the next two days off, the first in over a week, and he was looking forward to it, had apparently even gotten a bit of a head start on it, and he really hoped whatever this was wasn’t about to ruin it.

He picked up the phone with one hand and scrubbed the other over his face, squinting around his fingers to see the screen. The number was familiar- he’d been playing phone tag with them for a couple days now, his work schedule too demanding of late for him to have the free time to take or return phone calls during normal hours. Any other day, when he had more than a few spare shreds of his attention to give to the matter, he might’ve been able to place it.

“Grimes,” he said as he answered it, a cop’s deep-ingrained instinct. There was a brief pause, the caller surprised to find themselves talking to an actual person and not a voicemail recording.

“Deputy Grimes?” the man on the other end of the line asked. Familiar, again, but Rick couldn’t place it. “This is Hershel Greene,” he continued, and even then it took Rick an embarrassingly long moment to place it.

“Mr. Greene,” Rick said, straightening up pointlessly. After a moment he remembered the man couldn’t see him and sagged forward again, dropping his elbows onto the table still cluttered with dinner dishes and files from the station. Ed Peletier’s frozen expression of terror stared up at Rick from the file he’d been dozing on, and Rick reached out and turned the picture over. “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you before,” he began, feeling thick-tongued and stupid.

“No, it’s all right,” Hershel interrupted. “I heard about Ed Peletier, I know you have more important matters to focus on right now.”

Rick said nothing, not sure what was safe to say. He pushed the papers from the open file around into a messy pile on top of the folder, then leaned forward across the table to start stacking dirty dishes onto each other.

“Maggie said you wanted me to do a necropsy on the cow,” Hershel continued. “I have the results, if you’d like them.”

“Sure,” Rick said. Anything that didn’t have something to do with that murder- they were down to a roaming drifter had passed through town and killed Ed for the hell of it, and nobody liked it. “Anything stand out?” he asked.

“Well,” Hershel began, then faltered. He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it, and it took him a long few moments to get his thoughts in order. “Maggie’s going into town tomorrow to run some errands, I’ll have her drop the official report off at the station if you want,” he said. “But in the meantime, yes, something did stand out.”

Dinner had been spaghetti- fast and easy to make, just throw everything on the stove and heat it up- and Carl hadn’t finished his garlic bread. Rick broke off the bitten part and stuck the rest in his mouth, putting his phone on speaker and holding it well away from him as he chewed the crunchy bread.

“The cow’s heart was missing,” Hershel said, and Rick inhaled bread and choked on it.

A few minutes later, after Rick could breathe again and had drank approximately half a gallon of water to clear his passageways, after Carl had pounded on Rick’s back a few times, after Hershel had been reassured that he hadn’t just accidentally killed him, Rick rubbed at his wet eyes and asked, just to be sure, “The heart was missing?”

“Yes,” Hershel said. “I checked twice. Nothing else was removed. Whoever did this was only interested in the heart.”

Rick shifted through the sloppy pile of paperwork on the table, flipping through the papers, looking for one report in specific. “Have you ever heard of anything like this before?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Hershel said. “Three times over the past five years. The last two before ours were in Lynne County.”

So the King County Sheriff Department wouldn’t make a connection, if the kills were spread out over time and across county lines. It would hardly be worth noticing now, if it weren’t for one little thing. Rick finally found what he was looking for, holding up the autopsy report for Ed Peletier. The coroner had been slow to file her report, thorough in her work and confused by her findings.

“I’ve got tomorrow off, can Maggie drop that report off at my house instead of the station?” he asked, and gave his address when Hershel agreed. He hung up a minute later, vaguely aware of having gone through the normal pleasantries of saying goodbye, but for the most part, his attention was focused on one particular line in the report.

_\- victim appears to be missing his heart-_

“What the hell is going on here?” Rick said to himself- a stupid question, as there was no one to answer it.

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer anyways.

\-----

_June 4th, 5.58 p.m._

Carl got to the door first after the doorbell rang, excited until he opened the door and saw the person on the other side.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Dad, it’s for you,” he called needlessly, as Rick was barely three steps behind him, then turned and walked away.

"I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Maggie Greene asked, her own friendly smile having dulled a bit in the face of Carl’s deflation.

“He ordered a pizza,” Rick explained as he opened the screen door and came out onto the porch. Maggie’s good humor returned instantly, her smile turning mischievous as she looked past Rick into the house.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just me, and this. Might wanna eat before you read this.” She held out a small packet of papers, stapled sloppily together and folded in half. Rick took it and allowed the folded papers to gape open, tilting his head to skim the writing. Nothing immediately jumped out at him, but then, he hadn’t honestly expected anything to.

“Thank you,” he said politely, since Maggie was the kind of girl that brought out his proper Southern manners. He nodded to her, a slight dip of his head, and Maggie smiled back unsurely, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her fingers tangling together.

“Deputy,” she said as Rick turned away, and he turned back instantly, having expected that. Maggie looked outright worried now. “Is there,” she began, then cut herself off. She shifted her weight nervously and looked around, studying the porch closely like she’d only just noticed it was there. “Should I be worried?” she asked, finally looking back at Rick, her eyes sharp and intense.

No, was the official answer. No, ma’am, nothing to worry about, play it safe just like always and you’ll be fine. But Rick liked Maggie, and he respected her father, and they deserved better than the PR answer.

“Stay inside at night,” he said. “And keep your eyes open for strangers. Right now we’re thinkin’ it’s a drifter, so he’s probably already cleared out of town.”

“That just means you couldn’t find a better suspect,” Maggie said, but she had relaxed. She’d expected the PR answer, and Rick had given her something else, something better, instead.

Rick didn’t answer that. He didn’t know how. Instead, he shook his head and turned away again, stopping to watch as a ratty old Honda Civic pulled into his driveway, its neon roof sign flickering badly.

“Pizza’s here,” Maggie said, already retreating down the porch stairs.

“Thank you,” Rick said again, needlessly. “And thank your father for me, too.”

Maggie nodded and turned away, heading down the walkway to her car, parked on the curb. Rick headed inside, leaving the main door open as he stopped just inside the entryway, looking over the report Hershel had written.

“Who was that?” Carl asked.

“Maggie Greene,” Rick said. “It’s work related."

“I thought it was your day off,” Carl protested, and Rick tore himself away from the papers to look at his son. He was sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor, sprawled out in a lazy heap that made Rick do a double-take and wonder exactly how much time his son had been spending around Daryl.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed, moving into the living room and tossing the packet onto the end table where all the files from the night before had ended up. “It’ll keep. Pizza’s here, by the way.”

Carl brightened up instantly, shooting off the stairs and straight out the screen door. Rick followed at a leisurely pace and smiled at what he found. Glenn Rhee was a fixture in their lives- Rick’s hours and cooking skills being what they respectively were, he ordered pizza a lot, and Glenn did the deliveries in their neighborhood. He was a bright, cheerful kid who had plans to go to college someday, plans he’d happily outline to anyone who asked with the slightly desperate air of a man who was slowly realizing he was chasing a pipe dream. Rick honestly hoped Glenn did get out of Ashlyn- he was a smart kid, and while there was nothing wrong with living in a small town, he would be wasted here.

Glenn had clearly stopped to talk to Maggie on his way up to the house, and was now staring after her as she walked away with a certain slack-jawed blankness that Rick recognized. He’d worn a similar expression the first few times he’d talked with Lori- it was like being hit by a freight train, one that, in Lori’s case, smelled like lilacs.

“Glenn,” Rick said, and when Glenn didn’t seem to hear him, “Glenn!”

“Ye-wha?” Glenn said in reply, snapping around to face them.

“Wow,” Carl said, and sniggered a little bit- he was still a little bit young to be making an idiot of himself over a pretty girl just yet. Maggie spared Rick a wave and Glenn a long glance before she climbed into her car and drove away, and Glenn stared mournfully after her as he walked sideways up the driveway.

“Was that Maggie Greene?” he asked when he reached the porch steps. Carl jumped the stairs and tugged the pizza boxes out of his hand, sliding the lids up to check and make sure everything was just right.

“You know her?” Rick asked, already reaching for his wallet. The pizza place screwed up half the time, leaving pepperoni off or putting anchovies on, but Carl would eat anything regardless, and yelling at Glenn or refusing to pay wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

“We went to high school together,” Glenn said distractedly, hardly noticing he was no longer holding the pizzas, still staring up the road. He spared Rick a quick, guilty glance. “I always thought she looked like a boy,” he admitted.

“She doesn’t now,” Carl said, saying what Rick couldn’t without sounding wildly inappropriate. Having accepted the pizzas as meeting his standards, Carl turned and headed back inside while Rick counted out the money.

“Huh,” Glenn said, taking the money and handing over the change, getting it wrong twice. Rick thanked him and sent him on his way, smiling to himself as he watched the kid walk straight into his car. He remembered what that was like, that first bloom of infatuation, when there was nothing in the world but her.

He stayed out on the porch, watching to make sure Glenn would make it out of the driveway okay, that the kid hadn’t completely forgotten how to drive. And once Glenn was gone, he lingered a moment longer, his gaze cutting across the yards to Daryl’s house. Rick’s recent hours hadn’t left much time for another chat with Daryl, meaning they’d left it off on an awkward note, _again_. He was getting used to that.

“Dad! Are you gonna eat?” Carl called, and Rick shook himself. He looked over at Daryl’s house one final time, resolving to go over and talk to the man the next time he saw him, try and get this confusion sorted out like proper adults. Then he headed inside, to his dinner and his family.

\-----

_June 5th, 10.18 a.m._

He was on his fourth pass down the length of the yard, doggedly widening the long thin stretch of grass he’d already mowed, when something made him pause. He let the lawn mower’s engine die as he looked around, although it didn’t take long to find the source of his disturbance- his gaze went right to Daryl’s house like it was magnetically drawn to it, and sure enough, Daryl was standing on the porch. His was clearly fresh out of bed, his hair a wild mess and pillow lines still imprinted on one cheek. His face was slack with sleepiness, his whole body loose and relaxed in a way Rick hadn’t seen from him before, his guard down. He looked startlingly vulnerable.

Rick had wanted to talk to Daryl, but he hadn’t intended to drag the man out of bed at- for his schedule, at least- some ungodly hour for the privilege. He debated just going back to mowing and try to catch Daryl again later that day, preferably when he was more awake an in a better mood. That plan derailed, however, when Daryl blinked and turned his head suddenly, just enough to pin Rick with a lazy glance. Feeling he was somehow being challenged, Rick left the mower and started across the yard, stopping a polite distance away from the other man.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked, and Daryl blinked at him. He was holding something by his side, something Rick wasn’t at a good enough angle to see. For a moment he fought with the urge to comment on it- it was a little early to be hitting the beer yet- but Daryl brought his hand up and Rick bit his tongue. It was a jar of peanut butter, not a bottle of beer.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. He rolled the peanut butter jar in his hands and stared drowsily at Rick, clearly still half-asleep. “ ‘S all right,” he added, and focused his full attention on unscrewing the lid on the peanut butter.

So maybe not the best start, but clearly Daryl wasn’t in too bad a mood. Rick watched as Daryl fumbled the lid, dropping it and staring down blankly at it like he was debating if it was worth the effort of bending over to pick it up. Then he shook his head a little and stuck one finger right into the jar. Rick didn’t know what he wanted to say, how to have a normal conversation with this man. They were well past the polite but impersonal stage, but hadn’t yet had a conversation that didn’t end with one or the other walking away either pissed off or extremely confused.

Before the silence could get too incredibly awkward, Daryl glanced up at Rick. “So you ever find who killed Ed?” he asked. He pulled his finger out of the jar with a big glob of peanut butter on the end.

“No,” Rick said, bracing himself for vitriol and vinegar, for an angry lecture- if you hadn’t been so busy harassing me, you would’ve caught the real killer- something along those lines. Daryl just snorted and shook his head, an ironic little smile on his face. Then he stuck his peanut-buttered finger in his mouth and dragged it back out again slowly, hollowing his cheeks as he cleaned the peanut butter off.

If it had been fast- that sudden thunderclap of _want_ , like what he’d had with Lori, like he’d seen yesterday with Glenn- if it had been that, it would have been easy to dismiss. It had been too long, was all. He was fresh off his divorce in a new town with a job that didn’t leave much spare time, was all. Pick your excuse, he had plenty of them- if it had been fast. Instead, it was slow, a vague notion that took root in his subconscious and slowly blossomed until he could no longer ignore it, warmth like a double shot of whisky pouring down into his belly. Lori used to do that, suck on her fingers like that- first as a way of teasing Rick, when they’d been newly married and they were out at a restaurant or had company over or something, later after they’d had Carl as a way of communicating, a way of telling Rick he was getting laid that night. Only this time, instead of Lori taking center stage in his mind’s eye, it was Daryl- strong and powerful and strangely shy, twitching away from every touch until he could be soothed, until he was too desperate for those touches to remember to be afraid of them.

Daryl’s finger pulled free of his lips with a quiet _pop_ and Rick shook himself, hard. He looked away, trying to fight the blush he could feel climbing in his cheeks. He had never- with another man- it wasn’t a crime to _think_ about it, but he’d never-

“You even have a suspect?” Daryl asked, his voice thickened by the peanut butter in his mouth, cutting off Rick’s mental ramblings.

“I-” Rick began, then snapped his mouth shut before he could say anything. He’d never really had to fight to win over Lori, and certainly never looked at anyone after her- he never had to learn how to not make an idiot of himself in front of someone he- someone he-

His mind shied away from any word that could fill in that gap and snagged instead on Daryl’s question, drawing on the memories of Ed dead on the road, of the cow split open in the field.

“Can’t say,” he said, fighting the slow-burning surge of lust with those ugly, bloody images. “You ever hear of a killer who takes their victims’ heart?”

Daryl had been in the middle of fishing more peanut butter out of the jar, but the second Rick asked the question, he froze solid, every muscle suddenly tense and locked. His gaze snapped up to Rick, eyes wide and wide-awake. The peanut butter jar creaked warningly in his hand, his grip so tight the plastic was folding inward under his fingers.

“What?” he said, his voice gone hoarse.

Rick shouldn’t have said anything- he knew better than that, he’d just been caught off-guard, shooting his mouth off in order to keep the rest of himself in line- but he’d already committed himself, so he may as well follow through. “Ed’s heart was missing,” he said. “Found a cow, too, same thing, ‘round the same time.”

Daryl slowly uncurled his fist from around the peanut butter jar. He bent over and picked up the lid and screwed it back on. Each movement was careful, measured, precise. He looked away, over Rick’s shoulder, careful not to meet Rick’s gaze, and Rick knew he wasn’t going to like what was coming.

“Never heard of anythin’ like it,” Daryl said.

“Really?” Rick asked, cool and professional, a cop being fed a whooper of a lie.

“Nope.” Daryl swayed back a step, then two, his gaze shifting and sliding everywhere that wasn’t Rick. “Got shit to do,” he said, ducking backwards when Rick dared to take a step after him, trying to corner him.

“Daryl-” Rick began, angry now.

“Leave it,” Daryl said, and he was angry too, angry and something else entirely. Scared, maybe. He glanced at Rick for a long second before heading into his house, the front door snapping firmly shut behind him. Rick stared after him, jaw set, and debated just going and kicking down the damn door- but that would accomplish nothing. If there was one thing Daryl Dixon was good at, had proven himself capable of time and time again, it was keeping his damn mouth shut.

He dragged the lawn mower back into the garage, too worked up to finish the mowing for now, and headed for the door to the house. The lightbulb had burned out- exploded, really- so he was stuck navigating in the dark. A step away from the door, he stepped on something that gave a muffled crunch, shifting like sand under his boot. He swept it away with the side of his foot and headed inside.

Tomorrow, first thing, he was accessing national records and doing a search for cases with missing hearts and seeing if any tied to the Dixon brothers’ activities, because no way in hell did Daryl not know exactly what was going on. But for now, he stopped in the living room and forced himself to breathe and to think, to calm down. Too much had happened too fast, he needed time to sort through it all.

He turned to look out the window that faced Daryl’s house and stood there for a good long while, until his thoughts were racing in circles and going nowhere at all and he was no closer to figuring anything out.

\-----

Daryl didn’t quite slam the door in Grimes’ face, but the quiet _click_ sounded just as final, just as ominous. He leaned back against the door, listening to the other man move away. The lawn mower didn’t start up again, but Daryl hadn’t really expected it to. He waited until he heard the garage door closing in the house next door before he finally pushed away, heading instantly over to his laptop.

A year and a half ago, he wouldn’t have had to check- he’d known the lunar calendar by heart. A year and a half ago, he’d had his brother to conquer the world with, not a know-nothing cop to hamstring him.

“June twenty-third,” he said to himself, reading the first search result to pop up, burning the date onto his mind. June twenty-third. Eighteen days.

Merle hadn’t been real good at making friends- exactly the opposite, actually- so the list of people whom Daryl could call in favors on was short. He called them all anyway, for whatever good that did him. Half the numbers were disconnected, and the other half weren’t happy to be hearing from him. He was poison, as far as the hunting community was concerned. His brother was a careless, heartless bastard who’d got what was coming him, and Daryl was hardly any better, following Merle’s lead as he did. Had done. Michonne was the only one Daryl had really expected any sort of support from, and she didn’t answer. He left her a message, short and succinct, and stood silently after he’d hung up, waiting for- something.

Waiting for someone to come rescue him. Waiting for someone to do the job, _his_ job. 

Eighteen days.

“Fuck it,” Daryl said to himself, and dropped his phone onto the table next to his laptop and headed to the back door.

The cellar door was outside in the backyard, set in the ground, and it took Daryl nearly twenty minutes to clear the plant overgrowth off it. The padlock was old and rusted but the lock itself was shiny, custom-made with a trick-turn built in to keep out even the best lock picks, and he fumbled with it for a moment until muscle memory took over and the lock clicked. He slid inside and closed the doors behind him, leaving himself shrouded in darkness, the only light creeping through the cracks in the wood-slat door. He hadn’t been down here in a year and a half. He didn’t decorate for Christmas, didn’t buy large items that needed storing, didn’t make jams and jellies that needed a cool dark place to set- there was nothing in the cellar that was of any interest to him, except. Except.

This was where he had shed his old life, like a snake shedding its skin. He needed it back, now.

There was a flashlight on a shelf just inside the cellar; the light flickered badly for a moment before evening out, weak and lost in the gloom. He shone it around, the circle of light weaving drunkenly over the dusty cellar, until it finally caught on a familiar canvas bag. He strode over to it and dropped to his knees next to it, unzipping it slowly and pushing it open.

Inside, on top of everything else, was a crossbow.

Carefully, reverentially, Daryl picked the bow up. He stood up and settled the bow into its familiar place at his shoulder, the nose pointed towards the wall, his cheek pressed against its stock. He pulled the trigger, plucked the string, traced his fingers along its curved arms, checking for burrs or catches or weak spots, and found none. He pulled the arrows free of the quiver at the nose of the bow, rolling them in his fingers as he checked the tips. Standard iron- good for spirits, bad for what he needed.

He placed the bow aside and pulled the bag closer to himself, digging around in it. He checked the side pockets twice, then turned the whole bag upside-down, dumping everything onto the floor. Nothing. With an agitated grunt, he grabbed his crossbow and stood up, shining the flashlight over the whole cellar- but Michonne didn’t work out of this house. She had the basic protection necessities and nothing fancy, like silver. He 'd have to buy his own, which meant most likely depleting his meager savings.

Eighteen days.

He dropped his head back and sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in his hair.

Eighteen days to the full moon. Eighteen days to bag himself a werewolf.

Looked like he was coming out of retirement.


	6. silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late because of real life reasons, my apologies- got my ass kicked by the flu- so it's extra-long again as apology.
> 
> Also, duosdeathscythe has made posted some awesome fanart for this fic, chapters one and two so far, so go check it out. Right now. I'll wait.

_June 6th, 7.42 a.m._

 

Rick got to the station at barely half-past five- he hadn’t slept well at all that night, tossing and turning and staring into the darkness. The house was cold, like Carl had turned on the AC again, and Rick’s mind was too busy whirling over nothing to let him sleep, so he’d given up on that and headed into the station to do some research instead, taking back roads and stopping at McDonald’s so as to delay his suspiciously early arrival as much as he could.

It took him twenty minutes to dissect the case files Hattiesburg had sent over and not even half that for him to realize it was a hash job. Hattiesburg PD had been under a lot of pressure to close the case fast, and since they already had two suspects conveniently on hand, they hadn’t really done any digging. Merle Dixon’s confession had put the brakes on everything- evidence processing, canvassing, interviews- the Hattiesburg cops had happily accepted his word on it and closed the book and that was that. And somehow in the midst of all this, Daryl Dixon, Merle’s baby brother and loyal shadow, who had to at least have passively stood by and allowed the murders to happen, had slipped through the cracks.

The more interesting stuff came up when Rick went hunting for similar cases of victims with their hearts torn out.

He had no access to any national databases from his computer, so he turned to Google instead, which admittedly was a mistake. The theories ranged from satanic rituals to cannibalism to werewolves- because the majority of the kills tended to be on or very near full-moon nights- to the hearts weren’t taken, they were blown to smithereens by miniature explosives planted into pacemakers by the CIA. Rick sorted through the dreck to find only vagaries- there were an abnormally high number of those kinds of murders, but no one knew all that much about them, because they tended to go unsolved.

Sitting there in the station, in the harsh lighting with his cup of bad coffee, Rick could analyze it properly. He was sexually attracted to Daryl, which was fine. It had been so long since anyone other than Lori- or sometimes even including her- had done anything for him, he was mostly just surprised he was even capable of feeling attracted to anyone at all. That it was _Daryl_ of all people was awkward, but mostly because of the cop/criminal aspect. Still, some part of Rick wanted to _like_ Daryl, not just lust after him. His instincts hadn’t failed him yet, and while he knew Daryl was hiding something from him, some small part of him kept insisting that Daryl was a good man, someone Rick could trust. Directly contradicting that was Daryl’s quiet refusal to tell Rick anything.

There was precious little else Rick could do now anyways. Any more digging would have to be through official channels, which would leave a trail and raise questions, and the last thing Rick wanted to do was lead his fellow cops straight back to Daryl after the poor bastard had finally dropped off their radar. His coffee had gone scummy and cold, and the station was coming to noisy, active life as people trickled in, so Rick got up and poured his coffee into the sink and tossed the Styrofoam cup into the trash. He was gathering up the Hattiesburg file to return it before anyone could see him with it and start asking awkward questions when something caught his eye.

Merle had been held in county lockup under medical watch- he’d somehow lost his hand in commission of his crimes, reportedly when one of his victims fought back- a few weeks after he’d confessed, until he was stable enough to be transferred to the state prison. Rick studied the transfer form for a moment, then tucked it away. He may have quit the big leagues, but he still had a lot of people who owed him favors. He could cash one in for this.

He put the file back where he’d found it and went to get himself more coffee and settled back at his desk, calm now that he had set his mind on his next task. If one Dixon brother was going to be a closed-mouth pain in the ass, he’d just go to the other, the one who had the reputation for talking too much instead of not at all.

Next day off he got, he was going to Mississippi to have a chat with Merle Dixon.

\-----

 

_June 6th, 2.48 p.m._

 

The kid behind the counter was reading a magazine and didn’t look up when the bell on the door jangled with Daryl’s entry. Daryl watched him for a moment, then shook his head and moved away, going over to grab a burger off the heat-rack before heading back to the front. 

“Fifteen on pump four,” he said, grabbing a Snickers bar and putting both it and the burger on the counter by the register. He needed to talk to the farmer whose cow had been killed- Ed was killed on the full moon night, the werewolf had absolutely no control on that night, but the cow had been killed earlier in the week. If the werewolf knew what they were, they could almost control the monster inside, aim it in a particular direction- kill a cow, maybe, instead of a person. After a months’ hibernation the wolf would be too hungry to care about where its meal came from, just that it got one.

Daryl had spent the day so far bouncing from one farmhouse to the next, getting nothing but increasingly frustrated. It was northern Georgia, he could spend _days_ going in circles around the seemingly endless stretch of farmland out here and getting nowhere, and seventeen days. Seventeen days until the next full moon.

The kid behind the counter put down his magazine and turned to the cash register without sparing Daryl a glance, ringing up the total. “Nineteen-fif… ty… seven,” he said, his words trailing off into nothing when he finally bothered to look up at Daryl. The hunter pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a twenty, and the kid accepted it numbly, still staring just over Daryl’s left shoulder. After a long moment, he added, “You know, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to bring that in here.”

“Sign on the door says no guns,” Daryl said, already peeling the wrapper off the candy bar. “Didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout crossbows.”

“Yeah, we should probably fix that,” the kid muttered to himself as he dropped the proper change into the hunter’s open hand. Daryl ignored him as he bit off a large chunk of the candy bar and turned away, ducking sideways as he pushed the door open so as to not catch his crossbow on the doorframe. He’d finished off his candy bar and was halfway through the burger- table manners of a hyena, Merle had once said, which was funny since Daryl had learned it from him- when he stopped dead.

There was someone sitting on his motorcycle.

He was older, probably fifteen years or so on Daryl’s own thirty-six, his silver hair still full and thick and curly enough to put Daryl in mind of Rick Grimes, his skin tanned and callused and scarred. He had, incongruously enough, a small pair of reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose, and a newspaper spread open before him, propped up on the bike’s handlebars. 

He might as well have had _hunter_ written across his forehead.

“Heard about your brother,” the man said as Daryl approached, not bothering to look up from his paper. “My condolences.”

“He’s in prison, he ain’t dead,” Daryl said, and the man turned the page of the newspaper with deliberation and finally looked up at Daryl, just a quick glance over his glasses.

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

Daryl shifted his weight impatiently. “What’re you doin’ here, Joe?” he asked. The older man gave him a patiently condescending look, then shuffled the newspaper again, this time folding it up and turning it so Daryl could see the front page headline. It was an old issue, the one from the day the cops took Daryl in, the one headlining with Ed Peletier’s death.

“You have to ask?” Joe countered, a sharp sly smile pulling the corners of his lips up. “A friend in the state livestock board tells me a local vet filed a report of cows with their hearts torn out, then I hear you got a man dead on a full moon night, and what? You think I can’t add two and two?”

Joe hadn’t been on the list of hunters Daryl had called the other day- not only did he not have a current number for the man, it just plain hadn’t occurred to him. Merle hadn’t been a big fan of other hunters, but he’d had a special place in his heart for Joe, some ambiguous spot between reluctant acceptance and _kill him with fire_. Joe was smart and quick on his feet and always willing to help out a fellow hunter, so Daryl had never understood his brother’s disdain for the man. Maybe it was as simple as not liking other hunters stepping in on his hunt, or maybe it was something far more complicated- but whatever the case, his brother didn’t trust this man, and Daryl was inclined to follow his brother’s lead. He didn’t have Merle there to watch his back anymore, which was dangerous enough when it came to facing monsters- but monsters Daryl knew, and could protect himself from. It was people that really scared him.

“Ain’t your problem,” Daryl said. He tangled one hand into his crossbow strap and Joe’s eyes followed the movement, land on the nose of the crossbow resting easily on Daryl’s shoulder.

“Rumor is you’re retired, out of the game,” Joe said with a smirk. “Don’t look so retired to me.”

“Bad form to let somethin’ set up shop in my own back yard,” Daryl said. 

“Especially something as nasty as a werewolf,” Joe agreed sagely. “Dangerous to hunt those alone, Daryl.”

So that was it, then. Joe might have been drawn here by the hunt, but he’d sought Daryl out because he knew better than to hunt a werewolf alone. Werewolves were dangerous, especially during the full moon phase- fast and brutal and vicious and _contagious_ , that was the real threat. They were dangerous, sure, but not any more so than wendigos or spirits, both of which were capable of at least basic intelligent thought, whereas a werewolf was basically just a ballistic missile without a target. But spirits and wendigos couldn’t pass on their condition. With a werewolf, one bite, one nip, one tiny little nick from a tooth, and it was game over. You were worse than dead, you were one of them, and most of the time you wouldn’t even know it.

“Is that what you want? A partner?” Daryl asked. 

Joe tilted his head and spread his hands, an expansive shrug. His mouth pulled up in one corner again, a victorious smile trying to emerge, because he thought he’d won. And for a moment- a single, very long moment- he had. Daryl had never hunted alone, had quit the job and gotten out rather than try it, and Merle would have his head if he even thought about going after a werewolf alone.

Except, _Merle_. His asshole partner who didn’t care about anything who’d thrown himself on a grenade to protect his baby brother, the man who’d saved him from the hell of his childhood home and stood by him when he slipped and protected him when he stumbled. His _brother_ , who was in jail for a murder he didn’t commit, the murder of two people he’d lost his right hand trying to save. Daryl had last seen Merle chained to a hospital bed, shit-eater’s grin gone a little bright and wobbly from the pain meds, saying _get out, baby brother, get outta here, run like hell and don’t you ever look back_.

Merle was his partner, Merle was _blood_.

Daryl could feel himself shutting down, furious anger coming to the fore. His hand tightened around his crossbow strap, shifting slightly so as to allow him the room to swing the weapon down over his shoulder if necessary. Joe, sensing the shift in the air, leaned back away from the younger man.

“Easy, Daryl, what’s wrong?” he asked, calm and soothing like Daryl was an injured animal, and that only served to make it worse.

“My last partner almost got me arrested,” Daryl spat. “Last thing I need is another one causin’ me trouble.” He took a single step forward and Joe pulled away, finally getting off the bike and moving away from it. Daryl flowed smoothly into the gap, putting his back to the bike and pulling his crossbow down and resting it along his forearm, a diagonal line across his torso, a solid barrier between the two men. Joe was forced another step back as the crossbow’s nose swung uncomfortably close to his face, the silver-tipped arrows Daryl had spent last night making glittering blindingly bright in the sunlight.

He’d only had enough silver for three arrows- stuff was hellishly expensive anymore, and it was hard to find the real deal, not something silver-plated or –leafed, something pre-dating the new fad of mixing the silver with stainless steel to prevent tarnishing. He’d had to drive all the way into Atlanta before he found an antique shop that had something that met his needs, and he’d only thought to try an antique shop after he’d struck out at seven pawn shops.

“Now, Daryl, be reasonable,” Joe began.

“You think I can’t take care of myself?” Daryl demanded. “Think I need someone watchin’ out for me? Merle’s in jail and I ain’t and _I_ need babysitting?”

“You don’t have to like it,” Joe snapped back, his too-smooth charm burning away in the face of Daryl’s fire. “You just have to do it.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spat, for one terrifying moment flashing to his childhood, somewhere deep in the woods with his father standing behind him, whisky-rough voice in his ear and worn-smooth shotgun grip in his hands. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

A car, a station wagon with a kid in the backseat and a big black dog hanging its head out one of the windows, turned into the gas station parking lot. It stopped abruptly, halfway pulled into the lane between the two rows of gas pumps. The driver had probably realized there was someone standing in the way, or maybe just caught sight of the crossbow in Daryl’s hands- either way, they weren’t too keen to approach. The two hunters stared at the car for a moment, then turned back to each other, argument effectively diffused by the presence of onlookers.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Joe said, sad now, sincere as he always was. “Or worse. What am I supposed to tell your brother when that happens?”

Daryl slung his crossbow back up over his shoulder and swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat. He pulled at the strap across his chest, checking to make sure the bow was secure- better to find out now that it wasn’t than going forty down a country road.

“You tell him you did what needed to be done,” he said gruffly, not looking at the other man. The station wagon was inching forward again, daring to approach now that all weapons had been put away. “An’ don’t be lyin’,” he added, in case that part wasn’t clear.

Joe sighed and turned away. He stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at the pavement with the toes of his boots, like a petulant child.

“I’ll be in town, if you change your mind,” he said. Daryl grunted and started up the bike’s engine, its chainsaw roar drowning out anything else the older man had to say. He pulled forward, inching around the awkwardly angled station wagon and looping around the gas pumps to head for the exit he needed- then stopped when Joe stepped away from what was apparently his truck, a piece of paper in his hand.

“The vet’s name is Hershel Greene,” Joe said, holding out the paper. Daryl took it, after a moment of unenthused staring. It had an address and sloppy, landmark-based directions written on it. “In case that’s what you were out here for,” Joe added, and Daryl folded the paper up and stuck it in his pocket and revved the engine, pulling away. He paused long enough to look back and memorize the truck’s license plate, then pulled out onto the road. He half-expected the truck to follow after him, settle in a comfortable distance behind him- but two miles later, and Daryl was alone on the road.

He has to stop, eventually, and take out the paper Joe had given him. He’d have to backtrack to where the directions started- he hadn’t lived in King County long enough, or trawled the back roads often enough, to know his way around so easily. He idly wondered if Joe had already talked to Farmer Greene, how suspicious the man would get if strange people kept showing up on his doorstep to ask about that cow.

He figured out where he needed to go and how to get there and tucked the paper into his pocket again, then pushed his bike back onto the road. Better to seem suspicious as hell than let a werewolf roam free.

Seventeen days.

\-----

 

Out of deference to normal people and the fragile little bubble they lived in, Daryl left his crossbow slung over the handlebars of his bike when he went to go knock on Hershel Greene’s front door.

A girl answered his knock, some delicate little blonde thing with big eyes and a crooked smile. She didn’t invite him in- her daddy had taught her better, it seemed- but she did let him sit on the porch and drink some homemade lemonade while he waited. That was how Hershel Greene found him, eventually- sitting on the porch with a long-empty glass beside him, perfectly situated between the house’s windows so the blonde girl would have to come outside if she wanted to keep staring at him.

“May I help you?” Greene asked, wary but confident, a strong man on his own turf. He strode past Daryl, heading towards the front door as the hunter scrambled to his feet.

“Wanted to ask you about that report you filed, ‘bout the cow,” Daryl said, following a respectful distance after the man. 

He stopped when Greene swung the screen door opened and turned to face him, the fine mesh of the screen a barrier between them, making it feel almost like the one and only time he had gone into confession. Merle’s idea- Daryl distracted the priest while Merle went after the groundskeeper, who was actually a witch- but it had left an impact on the seventeen-year-old, fresh off his father’s death and his own escape from that nightmare house, still new to the world of hunting despite everything his father had taught him. The priest had been kind and sympathetic and quietly interrogative, and Daryl had told him far more than he ever intended, far more than he’d ever told anyone. When he finally realized how much he was saying he’d lit out of there like his ass was on fire, feeling raw and exposed like his skin had been scraped away, and punched Merle in the teeth when the jackass had laughed at him for it.

“Who are you?” Greene asked. “And why should I tell you anything?”

“ ‘M Daryl Dixon, and I’m a hunter,” Daryl said, feeling seventeen again, feeling raw and exposed again. “An’ you should tell me ‘cause I’m the only one who knows what’s really goin’ on here, and you know it.”

Hershel Greene was about as Irish as it got, and the Irish were a stubborn, superstitious people- there was rosemary growing in a plant pot by the front door, unpruned, not grown for seasoning but to ward off evil spirits. Hershel Greene knew, even if he didn’t _know_.

Greene hesitated and looked at him like he could hear everything Daryl wasn’t saying, stared at him through the screen with a worried expression, and for one wild moment Daryl wondered who was the priest and who was the confessor here. Then Greene opened the front door and gestured for Daryl to follow him, and the hunter ducked around the screen door and followed him inside.

“I can give you a copy of the report I filed,” Greene said, heading into the kitchen. Daryl stopped by the table, staying on his feet even after the older man gestured for him to take a seat in one of the chairs. The Greene family home was big and airy and tastefully decorated- lived in, loved- and it was not a place a Dixon belonged. At least the blonde was gone, scared off by the sight of her father. “But I can’t tell you much more than what’s in there,” Greene continued, turning away and heading to a small desk tucked into a niche in the hallway. He opened on of the drawers and pulled out a brown file folder.

“I need to see where it was found,” Daryl said, giving the file barely a glance as he took it. “Maybe ask some questions.” He wasn’t good at that part- his father taught him how to hunt, not how to talk to people, and Merle hadn’t done much better in that regard.

“No one I know has been acting strange lately,” Greene said. “No one has any reason to want to hurt me or my girls. The police have already asked me all of those questions, Mr. Dixon. They noticed the similarity between my cow and Ed Peletier too.”

Mr. Dixon again. People seemed to trot that one out when it meant bad news for him. Daryl looked away, feeling like a scolded child. “Cops don’t know what they’re looking for,” he said. “Only get themselves killed if they find it.”

“I can take you out to where the body was,” Greene said after a long silence. “But I don’t know anything that can help you.”

“Can’t be sure of that,” Daryl began, but Greene shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No. I’ve seen your world. I don’t want to be pulled into it.”

“You’re happier thinkin’ there’s a _person_ runnin’ around, doing this?” Daryl asked, confused. Maybe it was just him, maybe it was just because he knew the monsters, knew their names and their faces and their weaknesses. Maybe some people actually preferred human evil to a true monster.

“You don’t seem happier for knowing it’s not,” Greene said, and walked away as Daryl reeled from that one.

Greene drove him out to the field in his truck, the drive long and silent, and left him there to find his own way back when he’d learned all he was going to. It was more than Daryl had hoped to get from him, and possibly made him the most cooperative witness Daryl had ever dealt with. He read the file in the field and followed the shortest track off Greene’s land, to the small gathering of trees on the nearest border where a car could easily be hidden- pointing the werewolf at easy prey, not risking people getting killed- that had been saved for the night of the full moon, when the wolf would no longer be satisfied with substitutes.

Whoever it was, they knew what they were, and that made them all the more dangerous.

Merle in jail, Joe in King County, Rick Grimes who knew him for a fraud, Hershel Greene who had seen enough of his world to recognize it and to know he wanted nothing to do with it- Darylhad a lot to think about for that long walk back.

\-----

 

Rick got home at the same time Daryl left for work, the timing a little too exact to be coincidental- but Daryl was gone, the driveway empty.

“He’s been gone all day,” Carl said as Rick hesitated halfway up the driveway, trying to see if there were lights on in the other house. He started a little and turned to face his boy, who was sitting in the grass on the other side of the driveway. He had somehow hauled Judith’s playpen out of the house and set it up outside in the shade of an ancient elm that sheltered half of their yard.

Rick made a vague noise, not sure how he was supposed to react to that, _if_ he was supposed to react to that, and started walking again. He veered out across the grass and came to a stop a few strides shy of Carl.

“Are you still mad at him?” Carl asked, looking up at him, squinting against the sunlight.

“I wasn’t ever mad at him,” Rick began, but bit his words off short when Carl heaved a bone-deep sigh and looked away, disappointed as only a teenager could be. After a moment Rick stepped forward, turning and dropping down into the grass next to Carl. “I was mad at him,” Rick admitted, and Carl looked at him again. “I’m not anymore. I don’t know what I am, now.”

“He had a crossbow with him when he left earlier,” Carl said, deliberately testing, pushing. Rick snorted, because _of course_ Daryl had a crossbow. “Think he’d show me how to use it?”

“I don’t know,” Rick said. “You’d have to ask him.” Lori would have kittens, of course, but it had gotten to the point that he no longer cared about Lori’s opinion. A mother would protect her children, but she couldn’t be allowed to smother them with her protection.

In front of them, Judith watched in fascination as a swallowtail flitted past, butter yellow and dusty black. Rick and Carl both watched the butterfly in silence with her, watched it tumble through the air with a butterfly’s typical charming gracelessness. Rick waited until it was gone, then looked at Daryl’s house again, trying to imagine him with a crossbow, of all things.

Not surprisingly, the image came to him fairly easily.

“I like it here,” Carl said suddenly, dragging Rick’s attention back to him. “I like it better than Atlanta.”

Well, that was... unexpected. Rick had no idea what Carl did all day long, how he passed the time- all he knew was that the bemoaning of lack of internet access had tapered off after a few days, and Carl made an effort to be home roughly the same time as Rick every day. Other than that, he’d have to ask- other than that, Rick was a shitty father.

“Yeah?” he said, and looked over to Daryl’s house one more time before looking away, putting it away, putting it all aside- he had other things to worry about for now, things that always should have been the priority.

“Yeah,” Carl agreed quietly. He collapsed back into the grass, staring up at the sun-dappled leaves over them and the sky beyond. Rick watched him for a moment, until his sleep-deprived body began to protest sitting on the hard ground.

“I’m headin’ in,” he said, unfolding his legs and standing up with a sharp grunt. Carl snickered at him, the careless strength of youth laughing at the careful fragileness of the old, and Rick bent down and flicked his ear in retaliation. “Let me know if you need help gettin’ that back inside,” he added, nodding towards Judith’s playpen. Carl made a noise of agreement and Rick headed inside, leaving the front door open and letting the screen door swing shut behind him.

Carl had no real friends in Atlanta, Rick already knew this- between the whole mess with Shane, and the divorce, and now this awkward semi-official custody arrangement- he was a friendly kid but he’d never managed to make a lasting friendship, not one that would see him through all this. Ashlyn was a chance at a fresh start, a town where he was more than just his parents’ tragedies made flesh. He could have a good life here. Rick would talk with him about it over dinner, a serious talk. Lori wouldn’t like it, but Rick especially was supportive of growing up in a small town, and Carl was the swing vote. About time they started letting the poor kid have a say in his own life.

The house next door stayed dark and empty, and Rick didn’t spare it another thought the whole night through.


	7. fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, and I have no excuse, save that I'm a horrible person. All y'all thank the wonderful Katy for kicking my procrastinating ass into gear.
> 
> This chapter features Daryl and Carol being buds (because that's one brotp I can totally get behind), Merle being Merle, and Daryl being pissed. Expect foul language and certain Merle-esque implications. Also, as to where it ended- i'm very sorry please don't kill me i promise i'll make it better.

_June 7th, 11.48 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

 

Carol Peletier was, Daryl supposed, a pretty woman- fine-boned and just curvy enough, a nice face that was accented by her cropped-short hair rather than detracted by it. Her hair was fully grey- genetics or stress, probably, but not age, she wasn’t any older than Daryl, if that.

Daryl knew the smudged bruises beneath the eyes, the hair too short to be grabbed, the flinching and the trembling. He was careful, even after Carol let him in, even after he’d settled on the sofa- he moved slow and as little as possible, and kept himself out of arm’s reach. It would be a while before she trusted men again, and a good deal longer before she trusted a man as big and powerful as her husband had been.

“Would you like coffee?” Carol asked, bustling past him as he got comfortable on the couch. It was clean, and looked new, the cushion stiff and resistant to his weight. The entire house looked clean and new, like it was ripped straight from the Home and Garden magazine. 

“Sure,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face when her back was turned. He’d had to work last night, which meant he’d gotten precious little sleep. As it had been a Thursday night, he’d thrown the customers out at half past midnight instead of two, the crossbow on his shoulder making his _get out because I said so_ argument very effective. Still, he was exhausted. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, or twenty-five, or even thirty-five, although at least he’d only missed that boat by a matter of months.

“Want some casserole to go with it?” Carol asked, approaching from the kitchen with two slightly steaming mugs. They were a matched set, of course.

“I- what?” Daryl replied, brow furrowing, because he thought he’d heard her say casserole. Carol handed him one of the mugs and retreated instantly when he took it, settling herself in the armchair opposite him, a tiny smile turning up the corners of her mouth, daring in the face of his confusion.

“The ladies at church keep bringing us casseroles,” she said, blowing lightly on her coffee. “The freezer’s full and we can’t eat it all.” She looked away, out the window at the neighborhood that was so supportive of her now that she was a widow, but had turned a blind eye to her when she was just a beaten wife. She sounded slightly bitter, like she thought they were trying to buy her forgiveness with casseroles. They probably were.

“No,” he said after a long moment, when he realized the offer was genuine. “Uh, no thanks,” he added, trying not to wince. This was not a house where good manners ruled, no matter what impression it tried to give.

“I saw you that day, at the station,” Carol said, wrapping her arms around herself in a loose hug. “They wouldn’t tell me who you were or why you were there.” She looked at him, a studying look, thoughtful and measuring. “They thought you killed him.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, feeling suddenly awkward. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t remember, wouldn’t place his face in her memory. This was a stupid idea anyways, she wouldn’t be able to help him- she didn’t know anything because Ed hadn’t known anything, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have told her. “Look, ‘m sorry to intrude,” he began, taking a single polite, perfunctory sip of coffee- it was good, of course, all the better to chase away a hangover. “I just-” He didn’t know how to explain what he wanted, so he set his coffee aside and braced one hand on the arm of the couch, preparing to stand.

“Did you kill him?” Carol asked, stopping Daryl dead in an awkward half-standing crouch. He sunk back down to the couch slowly, staring at her in careful confusion. She lifted her head, set her jaw when her chin tried to tremble, curled her hands into fists around the hem of her shirt when her fingers tried to shake. She was scared of him, but there was steel in Carol Peletier, the same sort that Daryl had found within himself- hunter’s steel, the mettle that allowed them to stare the nastiest things on earth in the face and come back for more.

“No,” he said finally, slowly- he didn’t think the answer he gave mattered as much to her as how he responded to the question. If that was the case, he had passed with flying colors, as Carol relaxed a little in her chair, that hunter’s steel mellowing into something softer.

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

“To see if I can figure out what did kill ‘im,” Daryl said, honestly enough. He felt like he owed her the truth, somehow, like out of everyone in this town she deserved it the most. She already knew there were monsters and demons and ghosts in this world; nothing he told her in that regard would surprise her.

“What? Not who?” Carol said, eyebrows raising- too fast, too sharp, she could so easily be one of them. If she was a little more sure of herself, a little more sure of her way around weapons, if werewolves were a little less insanely dangerous, Daryl would almost consider asking her to partner up with him on this. Better than hunting alone, Joe had said, and he hadn’t been _wrong_. Daryl wasn’t completely adverse to the idea of partners who weren’t Merle, just partners who were Joe.

“Yeah,” he said, and picked up his coffee cup again to take another sip. It really was good stuff.

Carol was wearing a little golden cross on a delicate chain around her neck, the tiny thing tarnished in the corners and valleys but shining on the flat planes. She took it in her hand and rolled it between two fingers, polishing up the shine. “Why do you care? You’re not doing this for Ed.”

“ ‘Cause if I don’t stop it, it’ll do it again,” Daryl said, and Carol nodded once, as if she’d been expecting that answer.

“Then ask me what you need to know,” she said, regal and royal like a queen, like a mother. “Even if I can’t help, it’s better to know for sure.”

In another life, Daryl thought, one where she wasn’t a mother and a wife, she could’ve been exactly what he needed, after Merle. He drank his coffee, asked his questions, and mourned the loss of something he had never had.

\----- 

_June 9th, 2.19 p.m.  
Central Mississippi Correctional Facility_

Detective Charles Sanders, Hattiesburg PD, paced in aimless circles around the holding area, following- perhaps instinctively- the banded pattern of sunlight and shadow cast across the floor from the barred window. He moved like an anxious animal, like he thought they might not let him back out again.

“You’re not going to get anything from this asshole,” he said abruptly, and Rick lifted his gaze from his absent contemplation of the various expletives scratched into the surface of the table he was sitting at. He was calm on the outside but even more worked up than Sanders internally, twisting himself into knots like a flag in a strong wind. He was setting things into motion here, only he didn’t know what things, or which way they would move. Like taking that first shot in a game of pool; where any of the billiard balls ended up would be anyone’s guess.

“You don’t have to be here, if you don’t want,” Rick said mildly. “Matter of fact, I’d prefer it if you weren’t.”

Sanders snorted and paced away. He seemed incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of facing Merle again, almost as uncomfortable as he was with the idea of letting Rick face Merle alone- kinda made Rick wonder what the man thought Merle might have to say. “Fine by me,” he said. “I’ve had my fill of that jackass.”

Before Rick could respond to that- or refuse to deign to- the door buzzer sounded. The guard, standing military-neat beside the door, stepped smartly aside and pulled the door open before the tone could end. Rick stood up and moved away from the table- he’d interviewed enough suspects in prison during his career in Atlanta to know the basic rules- and the prisoner shuffled in, purposely dragging his feet and grinning and laughing, sharp and harsh.

“Well, good afternoon, Dee-tective Sanders,” Merle Dixon drawled cheerfully, waving one chained hand at Sanders- his left hand, his only hand, the right arm ending in a stump at the narrowest point of his wrist. “You come lookin’ for somethin’ else to pin on me?”

Sanders summoned up a fake smile and plastered it on. “No, Merle,” he said in a tone dripping with condescension. “Much as I’d like to, I’m too busy to play with you today. Deputy Grimes, however, is here to talk. Be nice to him.” He smirked at Rick and blew past Merle, ducking out into the hallway beyond before the guard at the door could even start to protest the breach in protocol. The guard escorting Merle gave him a none-too-subtle push and he staggered into the room. Rick stood back as the two guards took him to the table and threaded the long chain of his cuffs through the eye of the circle bolted in the middle. They’d rigged an elaborate tangle of chains for him- necessary, given his lack of a right hand- and the whole thing looked makeshift, like he was only seconds away from shrugging it all off.

“You can wait outside,” he said when the guards were finally done fussing with the chains. They both hesitated and Rick smiled a little. “I know the risks, I signed the forms,” he said, and a moment later he was alone in the room with Merle Dixon, double murderer and, by all accounts, all-around unpleasant jerk.

There was surprisingly little of Daryl in him- or maybe there was little of Merle in Daryl. The gruff backwoods accent was the same, and they had similar eyes, but Rick had been expecting a rougher, older, colder version of the stoic, introverted man he knew. Merle, however, was a different breed entirely. He was more rabid dog to Daryl’s carefully restrained wildness, savagely smiling and laughing even at his own misfortune, an omen of bad things, dancing through the world. 

“Well, I was hopin’ for a conjugal visit,” Merle said, drawing out word- cooooon-jew-gul- like he’d never heard it before. “Them serial killer fangirls are _hot_. But I s’pose you’ll do, Officer Friendly. Gets tirin’, seein’ the same old faces day in and day out. Conversation gets a little stale.”

Rick dragged his chair around and sat down across the table from Merle. “I’m not here to play games, Merle,” he said. “I just wanna talk. You don’t have anythin’ to say to me, don’t jerk me around.”

“An’ why should I talk to you?” Merle asked, leaning back in his chair as far as the chains would allow, sprawling carelessly in his seat- another shared Dixon trait, their inability to sit upright properly.

“Well, ‘cause the conversation in here’s getting a little stale,” Rick echoed, allowing just a hint of mockery into his tone, and Merle titled his head a little and stared up at him thoughtfully. Sensing they were at a crossroads, Rick pushed on, laying his best- his only- card on the table. “I’m Rick Grimes, Sheriff’s Deputy from King County, Georgia.”

Something sparked in Merle’s eyes at the King County part, sparked and died away quickly. “Never heard of it,” he said casually, and Rick nodded in understanding. Merle was protecting his brother at all costs, and without knowing what he was protecting his brother from, that currently meant denying everything until he could work out the details. He was smarter than he looked, than he led people to believe- another trait he shared with his brother.

Cards laid out, bets anted up, and Rick, as the dealer, had the floor. “You probably don’t hear much about us,” he said. “Hell, we’re an hour from Atlanta and they barely know we’re there. But a local man died a week or so ago.”

Merle smiled, slow and unfriendly. “You’re gonna hafta do better’n that, Officer,” he drawled carelessly, rolling the words off his tongue into one another, playing up the stupid-hick accent. “People die all the time, an’ I ain’t t’only killer in the world.”

Somehow, that was what did it, those bitterly mocking words, that vicious smirk- Rick stopped looking for comparisons between this man and Daryl at that, the casual, careless disdain for human life. Daryl was restrained wildness, half-tamed savagery on a tight leash, but he was innately _good_ , a decent man in an indecent world, even if he tried to cover it up- protect it, protect himself- with rudeness and brashness. But Merle- Merle was a rabid dog, and the only thing Rick could figure he cared about was Daryl, and he did that by pretending he didn’t. There was very little redeemable in Merle Dixon, and most of what was redeemable in him wasn’t even in him at all, but stood free of him, another person entirely.

“This man had his heart ripped out of his chest,” Rick said casually.

It was very interesting, how alike Merle and Daryl were. Merle went still the exact same way, barely remembering to breathe, giving Rick nothing with his frozen silence. His pupils dilated and his hand curled into a tight fist around the chain, tight enough that his knuckles went white, and his breath picked up a little bit, but that was it. He was scared, Rick might say, were he feeling so bold.

Whatever this was, it _scared_ them.

“See, I was talkin’ to my neighbor,” Rick continued. “He had pretty much the same reaction when I told him that.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Merle said, and his voice was rough, like it had been scraped out of him. “Never heard of somethin’ like that before. Sure are some sick puppies out there, eh?” He chortled to himself, amused at whatever joke he’d just made, and Rick was suddenly tired of the bullshit.

“Merle, whatever’s goin’ on in my town, your brother’s smack in the middle of it,” he said. “He put himself there. He’s goin’ after this guy, and I need to know what he’s getting himself into.”

“He damn well better not be goin’ after it,” Merle snapped, suddenly very concerned for a man who’d never heard of anything like that before. Rick blinked at the _it_ , but decided to let that slide in the face of his advantage.

“He is,” he said. “And you can’t stop him, you can’t help him. I can, if he’d let me.”

“ ‘S that why yer here?” Merle asked, too distracted by whatever news he had just received to be properly amused by this. “Tryin’ to get me to dish on Darylina? Screw you, Officer Friendly. You don’t know shit, you don’t need to know shit. Get yer scrawny ass home an’ tell my dumbass brother he’d better not be thinkin’ ‘bout going after that wolf.” He stumbled a little over the world ‘wolf’ like he wanted to say something else instead. Rick figured, if he did choose to relay Merle’s message, Daryl would know exactly what he meant.

“Merle, don’t-” he began, frustrated.

“Nah, you heard me. Guard!” Merle yelled at the door, and the buzzer sounded and the door opened almost immediately. “We’re done,” Merle said, staring Rick hard in the eye as he said it.

Rick sat back in his chair and sighed and watched as the guards went to work untangling the knot of chains. He sat in simmering silence, stymied by all things Dixon and sorely resenting it, until Merle was at the door, almost out it. Then he leaned forward, one last question to ask.

“Hey,” he said, and when Merle looked back at him, he asked, “Where was your brother when you were killing those people?”

It was an important question- a wind gauge, a barometer- the final ruling on whether or not he could trust Daryl- and no one seemed able to answer it. Merle snorted.

“Gone fishin’,” he said, and spread his hands- hand and stump- as best he could against the chains when Rick frowned at that. “Prove me a liar, Friendly,” he said, and chortled again as the guards escorted him out, his final joke, his ultimate victory, and Rick sat in silence long after he was gone and wondered.

\-----

_June 10th, 2.56 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

The call caught him on his way out the door, the phone ringing merrily as he was grabbing his keys off the hook on the wall- and for a moment, Daryl considered ignoring it, which in the long run would have saved him a lot of grief. Instead he doubled back, because he was on every no-call list known to man, so if someone was calling him, shit was hitting the fan in the biggest way possible.

Forty minutes later, he was leaning against his bike, parked on Old Mill Road- a twisty little back road that was nicely deserted- exactly what he needed. He was going to be way beyond late to open the bar, but there were no words for how much he didn’t give a fuck about that right now. He lifted his head away from his hand- chewed his thumbnail to the quick again, blood mixing with saliva and filling in the valleys of the lines in his skin like a bloody spiderweb- at the sound of a police siren dopplering over the hills around him. It had been long enough that the initial rush of rage had died away, leaving something ugly and red-hot inside him- Daryl wasn’t used to anger that lingered, he didn’t carry grudges- that was Merle’s thing, that was his father’s, letting shit get under his skin, into his blood, and fester. But Merle’s words were still singing in his ears, rolling on endless repeat through his head, and he was too bone-deep angry to be worried.

The cruiser crested the last hill and rolled to a gentle stop, the lights and siren cutting out as the vehicle settled back onto its shocks. A moment later the engine died and the driver’s side door swung open, Rick motherfucking Grimes easing himself out of the car.

“You faked a 911 call?” he asked, sounding almost impressed at Daryl’s sheer gall.

“You talked to my brother,” Daryl countered, pushing away from his bike and moving angrily, aimlessly across the road, nothing so structured as pacing.

“I could arrest you for this,” Grimes continued mildly, too mildly- he knew Daryl was pissed and he was fanning the flames, and it was working.

“Fuck you,” Daryl spat, and Grimes blinked at that, like Daryl had physically struck him. He stepped away from the car, slammed the door shut, lowered his head so the shadow from the brim of his hat blocked his eyes from Daryl’s view and rested one hand on the butt of his low-slung gun. He looked, in that second, like something eldritch and fay, like something Daryl might hunt. He looked angry too, only he burned cold, and for a moment Daryl was very, very scared of him.

_Werewolf_ , a voice in his mind whispered, and that good old hunter’s steel layered itself along Daryl’s spine and he straightened up, looked the man in the eyes and sneered. He’d faced down things more terrifying than Rick Grimes could ever hope to be.

“Why’d you go see Merle?” he demanded, grasping for some semblance of calm- he would need it, to hold his own against Grimes here. Grimes actually laughed, a sharp scoffing noise, and looked away for a moment before returning his laser-intense gaze to pin down Daryl.

“You have to ask?” he countered, easing a single step closer, and Daryl had to plant his feet and consciously order himself not to retreat.

“He ain’t got anythin’ to do with this,” Daryl said, gesturing in a broad, aimless circle around them, indicating the whole damn world on _this_. “You got a problem with me, you talk to _me_.”

“And have you lie to me again?” Grimes tilted his chin down a little, a humorless smile twisting his lips. “No, thank you.”

Daryl snorted and jerked away, pacing aimless circles along the width of the road, never quite taking his eyes off the other man. He couldn’t say who was in the wrong there, that’s what was really bothering him- it used to be he’d lie to the civilians to keep them safe ‘cause they were too stupid to handle the truth, but lying to Grimes felt _wrong_ , and Daryl had never experienced that before.

“Well,” Grimes said, cold and distant and disappointed, “at least you ain’t lying about that.”

And that one snide little comment was what did it, snapped something in Daryl clean as crystal, loud enough that Daryl heard it echoing in his ears. He spun on his heel and pushed forward, too close, far too close, getting right up into Grimes’ personal space. The gun came out of the holster but it was a move born of pure instinct; Grimes held it like he wasn’t aware of it, like it was a part of him, and Daryl was too far gone to spare much concern for it.

“You know what? I’m done,” he spat. “I was trying to _protect_ you, you fuckin’ moron.” His voice rose to a crescendo on _protect you_ and strained thinly over the final insult, loud enough that a flock of starlings roosting in one of the trees lining the road all took to the wing, scolding the noisy humans as they went.

“I don’t need you to protect me, I’m a cop,” Grimes said, his voice only raising slightly, still cold as ice.

“That don’t mean shit,” Daryl snapped. “Cops die every damn day, ‘specially when they stick their noses where they have no business bein’.”

“A man is _dead_ , Daryl,” Grimes said. “How is that not my business?”

“Useless sack of shit,” the hunter ground out, not sure who he was talking about- Ed or Grimes, or maybe even Daryl himself, because where had he been when a werewolf had been digging Ed’s heart out of his chest and eating it? Back in the bar, laughing to himself over the image of drunk-as-fuck Ed walking home. All hail the mighty hunter.

He rocked his weight back and paced away again, his anger shifting, mutating into something new. Grimes had a ghost in his garage and a werewolf loose in his town, and Daryl couldn’t protect him, never could- he’s just one man, gutted and hollow, used up and tossed aside, tired of the world and his job and his dumbass brother and wishing he could hit the restart button on his entire life and do it all _better_ this time. He wanted to know what it was like to live in a world where werewolves were teenage romance movie fodder, where ghosts were the memories you carried in your head, where witches were slutty Halloween costumes. Where fathers loved their sons and brothers supported each other. 

“Where were you when your brother was killin’ those people in Hattiesburg?” Grimes asked- he wasn’t done being angry yet, not by a long shot, and for one long, insane moment, Daryl considered answering honestly, giving Grimes the god’s own truth he wanted. But nothing triggered him faster than throwing in his face the people he’d failed, and the fires of his temper rekindled and burned bright again.

“Holdin’ one down while Merle cut the other open,” he said, thinking of Sparrow, the birds soaring up her arm, the blood bubbling on her lips, his mind touching on her only briefly before shying away from the pain and the guilt. He hadn’t killed her with his own two hands, but he may as well have. “Ain’t that what you’re thinkin’? Well, fuck you.” He’s loud again, vicious, up in Grimes’ face again. “You should be grateful I’m lying to you, ‘cause you sure as shit don’t wanna know what’s really goin’ on. So why don’t you just go on home and let me do my fucking job.”

“What job is that?” Grimes demanded, the tiniest hint of exasperation starting to crackle along the edges of his icy control.

“Saving people,” Daryl said. “Stoppin’ more bodies from dropping, an’ you know that, or you’d’ve arrested me already. Get the hell out of my way, I’ll stop the killin’, and then we’re done.”

There was a sense of finality in those last two words, the proverbial book slamming shut, and that was it- any affection, any pleasantness, any potential for friendship between them was ground into dust. Grimes had gone pale, jaw set so tight it was a wonder his teeth weren’t cracking.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me,” he said, and during the whole conversation, his tone had only ever gotten softer, quieter, harder- Daryl almost had to lean in to hear him now. “You don’t know what I know, what I can deal with. You don’t get to tell me what version of the truth I get to know.”

“You got kids,” Daryl said. “You come into my world, they’re dead, guaranteed. You wanna be a hero cop an’ protect people, fine. Protect your own fucking kids and _stay out of this_.”

“Are you threatening my family?” Grimes asked, and if he had seemed cold before, it was positively friendly compared to now.

“You saw Merle,” Daryl replied. “You saw what happened to him. How do you think your boy would do against somethin’ that can do _that_?”

Silence, then, the combatants retreating to their assigned corners. Daryl had found Grimes’ Achilles heel and would push on it until the man folded. The only question now was whether he’d get himself arrested for his trouble.

“Fine,” Grimes said. “We’re done.”

“We’re done,” Daryl agreed, and he turned away, turned his back on Grimes, walked away and didn’t once look back.


	8. moonrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this point, we are halfway through my outline. I can't say what that means in terms of word count or chapters- the scenes will get longer as more stuff starts happening, and I might divide things up a little differently than I currently have it in the outline- but we are officially at the halfway mark of my outline. Expect the second half to be longer than the first half.
> 
> Also, this chapter is late because I binge-wrote fifteen thousand words (!) that became the first half of another story, folie a deux, which I am foolishly working on at the same time as this one. Go give that a read if you're bored of waiting for updates here.

_June 13th, 3.29 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

 

His dreams were uneasy, after his encounter with Daryl on the road- burning eyes in the dark, a wolf stalking Carl and Judith, Daryl Dixon standing alone against a seething sea of darkness, other common nightmare fare- bad enough that Rick didn’t even bother going to bed the third night after, just stayed up late watching Nick at Nite and making faces at the cheesiness of Green Acres and Gilligan’s Island. He fell asleep there on the couch, head tilted back onto the cushion behind him and remote slipping from his lax fingers, and he woke up there at some ungodly hour in the morning, jerked awake with a snort. He sat up with a groan, his neck instantly seizing up, and he pressed his fingers against the spasming muscle and rolled forward, leaning against the arm of the couch.

The TV was blaring a screenful of snow, the static crackling quietly like a low-burning fire. Rick groped blindly for the remote and sighed when he only succeeded in knocking it off the couch- then paused, sighed again, deeper this time. His breath crystallized, curling into a small cloud before fading quickly away. There were goosebumps on his arms and a fine shiver in his limbs that he noticed now that he was thinking about it. Carl must have turned on the AC, he thought, and turned it up way too high. It was a mild year so far, there was no need for air conditioning yet, but Carl liked his climate control.

Rick stood slowly, carefully, in stages. He kicked the remote away from the couch and stepped after it, starting to bend over to pick it up- then snapped back up, eyes narrowed and unblinking. The TV screen still showed only static, but it had flickered, stuttered like a phone line with a bad connection, like a record skipping over a scratch- and for just a blink, when the screen had been black, he thought he’d seen- something. He looked over his shoulder, but of course there was nothing there- the couch was pressed up back against the wall, no room for someone to circle around behind it.

Creepy shit like this was happening a little too often for Rick’s peace of mind. He snatched the remote off the floor, wide awake now and no longer shuffling half-asleep through the motions. His thumb hovered over the Power button for a long moment, ice creeping up his spine and freezing his hand-

Then the TV flickered again, the screen flashing dark before lighting up again, plunging the room into alternations of darkness and sickly, ghostly pale light. With each breath of darkness, the figure reflected on the TV screen showed, a human-shaped smear of darkness standing out against the total black of the rest of the room. Rick didn’t look- couldn’t look, if he were being honest with himself, couldn’t take that last step and look down into the abyss, lest it look back- looking made it real, not just a product of an over-active imagination, grown in the fertile grounds of a nightmare-plagued mind.

His hand tightened on the remote until the plastic creaked and groaned and cracked under his grip, his breath came hard and fast like he’d been running, his heart pounded in his chest. It was fear, feral and primal, instinct-deep and hard-wired to his nervous system. He wanted to run, he wanted to fight, he wanted to _do something_ \- but instead he stood frozen, watching the reflection as the TV screen flickered badly, watched as the figure moved closer with each stutter to black.

Then the TV screen issued a loud, vicious pop, like a light bulb burning out, and the room went dark for good, and the spell over Rick broke. He surged forward, slapping a hand at the light switch- but the light stayed off, the room stayed dark, and he was facing into the abyss now, and the abyss looked back.

It was Shane, and it broke Rick’s heart.

He was how Rick remembered him, broad-shouldered and shaggy-haired, a smile on his lips, something more vicious in his dark eyes. His chest was stained black in the darkness, one ragged hole punched right over his heart- the bullet had ripped through his aorta, the EMT Rick had tracked down and intimidated had told him, even if he’d been shot in a prepped OR with a surgeon standing by, his odds would have been abysmal- the 22 necklace almost glowing against the bloodstain, catching some unknown light source and reflecting it back too brightly.

“Shane,” Rick said, a thick tangle of emotions tying his throat into a knot. He reached out one hand, an aborted gesture, and Shane tilted his head and grinned, dark and hungry, and _moved_ , not at all like a person but a stop-action jump that had him across the room in a heartbeat. Rick staggered away, tripping over himself, falling back into the hallway beyond, and Shane moved with him, lording his height, his size over Rick, like he always did, one hand reaching out in a way that seemed a good deal less friendly than Rick’s gesture had been.

“Dad?” Carl called, faint and muzzy with sleep, and Rick blinked- and it was gone. Shane was gone, the living room light was on, the TV was blaring static at him again. He slammed his eyes shut against the light, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Dad?” Carl said again, louder this time, and Rick risked opening one eye to look up the stairs, where his son was standing. “Are you okay?” Carl asked.

“I’m fine,” Rick said instantly, because the last thing he wanted was Carl worrying over him. “Fell asleep on the couch, is all.”

“I thought I saw something,” Carl insisted, and Rick could only shrug helplessly. His hands were shaking, now that they had nothing to press against. He shoved them into the pockets of his pants for something to do with them.

“Go back to bed,” he suggested, and Carl made a vague noise of agreement and turned to wander back down the hallway. Rick waited until he was back in his room before he moved, slinking into the living room slowly, carefully, like he expected an ax murderer- or something far worse- to be lurking in every shadow.

The living room was perfectly normal, not too cold, no flickering lights- nothing. He turned off the TV and hesitated for a long moment before flipping the switch and turning off the lights, but there was nothing still, just a normal room, just empty darkness.

It hadn’t been real. It couldn’t have been real.

Rick didn’t sleep again that night.

\-----

_June 14th, 2.28 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

_We’re done._

He tried not to look- he really did try- kept his head down and turned slightly away, moved fast across his yard, doing everything but literally holding up one hand to block his view and saying _I can’t see you_ as he strode over to his bike. He was running out of time- ten days to the full moon- and he’d finally gotten Grimes to keep his nose out of this mess, and he wasn’t looking to upset their new, if coldly hostile, status quo.

That was the older Grimes, though. Daryl hadn’t counted on the miniatures Grimeses coming into play.

“Hey,” a voice called, accompanied by a strange snuffling noise, and Daryl would have kept on walking had it not been for that noise- but he couldn’t identify it, and hunter instincts in high gear had him snapping his head around, quick to assess a possible new threat. It was just the Grimes kid, his arms full with his baby sister, who was making that snuffling noise through a mouth full of her own fingers.

It was too late to move on, to pretend he didn’t know the kids were there, so he shuffled his feet and ducked his head and looked away furtively, unconsciously plotting out escape routes. “Hey,” he said after a moment, reluctantly acknowledging the kid.

“Dad’s really mad at you,” Carl observed, and from the coolness in his voice, Dad wasn’t the only one. “What’d you do?”

“Nothin’,” Daryl said defensively, then instantly corrected himself. “ ‘S just stupid shit. He’ll get over it.” He wouldn’t- he shouldn’t have to _get over_ Daryl lying to him and flat-out admitting it, threatening his kids secondhand and manipulating Rick into not doing his own damn job- there was no getting over this, but Daryl wasn’t telling the kid that, not when it meant having to then explain why.

“No he won’t,” Carl predicted dourly, pausing to shift his sister in his arms as she began to squirm around. Her eyes were the same washed-out-denim-blue as her brother’s, as her father’s, and they fixed on Daryl with the same unwavering intensity as the two male Grimes’ did. She was chewing on the fingers of one hand and the other flexed open and closed, like she was imagining grabbing something.

“Then he doesn’t,” Daryl said with a helpless shrug. “Ain’t my problem.” Except, apparently, it was- he turned to walk away and Carl dogged his heels, keeping stubbornly after him, even as the baby started to whine unhappily at him.

“I thought you guys were friends,” the kid protested, then added, much quieter, “I thought _we_ were friends.”

He should keep walking- get on his bike, drive away, never look back. Find that fucking werewolf and kill it and call up Michonne and tell her thanks, but he’s got to move on now, he can’t stay in one place for this long, it’s driving him insane. Maybe start hunting again, keep to the shallow end of the monster pool out of respect for his lack of a partner- but he shied away from that idea even as it came to him. He didn’t want to get into hunting again, not full-time. Too much damage, too much baggage, too many missed chances, too many scars.

He should keep walking. Instead he stopped dead, like the kid’s words anchored him to the spot, stopped walking and dropped his head and curled his hands into fists, tight and aggravated. He hated himself a whole lot right now.

“ ‘M tryin’ to protect you,” he said, tired and defeated, the words punched out of him by pure emotion and raw nerves. He’d never known anything about the people he was protecting before. He’d never known their kid’s name, never shared a beer with them, never saw them early in the morning, blinking sleep out of their eyes, or late at night, face lined with exhaustion and jaw dark with thick stubble. He’d never burned with righteous fury because they proved less than cooperative, never risked heading unarmed into a spirit’s den because their idiot kid had to be brave. He’d never cared about the people he protected before, not in any but the most abstract way- people were numbers to him, a flock of sheep to be shepherded to safety- he’d kill himself protecting one person, but that’s just what it was to be a hunter. He’s never truly _cared_ about them before, and hard on the heels of that realization comes another- he cared now. About Rick fucking Grimes, of all people- the man who’d saved him a long walk home from the police station, who’d apologized for waking Daryl up once when Daryl was the one riding a noisy motorcycle home at three in the morning every morning, who looked surprised when Daryl played civilized human being long enough to offer him a beer, who watched Daryl closely when he thought Daryl wasn’t looking.

Who now hated Daryl’s guts, and thought they were done, because they _were_ , because Daryl was an idiot who preferred burning bridges to crossing them.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Carl said, sounding so much like his father in that moment that Daryl turned back to him, fast, almost surprised that it wasn’t Rick standing behind him. “I can take care of myself,” the kid added, loud and angry now. The baby squirmed some more, taking her hand out of her mouth to let out a proper squall, and Carl struggled with her for a moment- she was too large for his thin arms, too squirmy for him, and he was in the process of dropping her when Daryl moved, guided purely by instinct. He caught the baby under her arms, hefting her up instantly into the cradle of his elbow, settling her into place like he’d seen other people do countless times, the baby’s weight sliding her down into the perfect position.

He froze instantly, as soon as he realized what he’d just done- but it was far, far too late, the baby a warm, living weight in his arms, her sides heaving and her legs kicking, her drool-wet fingers clutching at his arm and drawing shiny wet patterns over his skin. Her face was screwed up in preparation of crying, but she’d stopped to consider her new situation, her eyes- so much like her father’s- on Daryl’s face. She continued to whimper, and Carl bounced a step or two away, not realizing the full weight of the event unfolding before him.

“You got her, I’m gonna go get her bottle,” he said with the careless ease of someone long used to being tapped for babysitting duties and who had never once considered that others might not be nearly as experienced at it, and then he was gone, heading up to his house. Daryl, for his part, continued to stand there, barely breathing, praying to a god he’d never believed in that Rick wasn’t home, wasn’t about to walk out and see this.

The baby- he didn’t even know her name, how was this happening to him- made a strange noise, something happy and cooing, and reached up to slap her slobbery hand against Daryl’s cheek. She wound her other hand into his shirt, bringing it over to her mouth to chew on it, and she smiled up at him, and Daryl couldn’t find it in him to be angry at her for slobbering on his shirt. Her free hand brushed against the tips of his hair, falling freely to frame his face, not quite long enough for her to reach, and he freed one hand up to reach up and push it back out of his face. She caught his hand as it moved past her, wrapping all her tiny stubby fingers around one of his, apparently marveling at the size difference like he was.

Then Carl was approaching again, a blanket tossed over his shoulder, a bottle in one hand. “Here,” he ordered, holding out his arms, and Daryl had to fight down the urge to say _no, mine_ and turn away. He pulled his hand free and gave her over with only a bit of fuss, although as soon as she realized what was going on, she began to fuss again. Carl shut her up with the bottle and gave Daryl a disgruntled look.

“Thanks,” he said sulkily, reluctantly, and Daryl smoothed his shirt down, tracing the palm of his hand over the wet spot near his collar, and turned away. He got two steps before he turned back, looking past Carl as something occurred to him.

“You been havin’ any more trouble with that garage door recently?” he asked. Carl slid him a sour look, then glanced at the garage door, then back at Daryl, confusion and realization temporarily overwhelming the attitude.

“No,” he said, and he sounded scared now, edging instinctively closer to the hunter. “Daryl, what’s going on?” he asked, and he was right to ask- the spirit should’ve been getting worse, more active, angrier, not quieting down.

“Dunno,” Daryl said honestly. “You been stayin’ outta there?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. “Dad, too.” Taking advantage of his distraction, the baby slapped the bottle away, out of Carl’s loose grip, sending it bouncing across the lawn. The kid made an aborted move to go after it, then recoiled, almost colliding with Daryl. The brilliant summer afternoon seemed dimmer now, somehow, colder and darker, like the color had been washed out. “What’s in there?” he asked, and they both looked at the house- the charming house, with its gauzy curtains and ivy-covered porch- and Daryl almost shivered. Amazing how spirits, with their purely human hatred, could seem so much worse than all the proper monsters in the world.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he said, forcing his tone to levity, turning away again. “You’re safe.”

“Yeah,” Carl said, and something in his tone made Daryl stopped dead- but the kid was already walking away, bending down awkwardly to pick up the bottle with his sister still in his arms, refusing to look back at the hunter behind him. He headed inside without another word, and Daryl stood uselessly, pointlessly, in the yard, feeling like he’d missed something big, something important, something that would come back to bite him in the ass later- feeling like he had a year and a half ago, in the bar with Merle on Christmas Eve, his brother saying it would be an easy hunt, in and out, and instead it had shattered both their lives.

God help him, he was _worried_. He was tripping over his lies, getting caught out in them, making himself too obvious- he was _worrying_ over a fucking civilian- he really had gotten rusty, gone soft in his retirement. Hunters protected people but they didn’t care about those people, not really- caring was a good way to break yourself into little pieces.

Fucking Grimes, the whole fucking family. Everything had been so much easier before they came along.

\-----

_June 15th, 12.20 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Moonrise was early during this time of year, the moon a pale fat smear sitting on the horizon. Rick sat in his car and stared at it for a long moment, until the heat from the enclosed space raised sweat on his skin that stuck his shirt to his back. It felt like the entire world was holding its breath, like something was about to happen and this was the calm before the storm. For one brief second, last night when he’d been getting no sleep yet again- in the dark hours of the night, when the darkness breathes and the shadows dance and anything and everything is possible- for one second, he’d considered it, toyed with the notion. He thought about Daryl’s verbal dance out on the road- _how do you think your boy would do against somethin’ that can do that_ \- he thought of Merle, who’d thought everything a joke until he heard his brother was going after _it_. He thought of Shane, standing bloody and impossible before him, and for one long moment, he had believed.

Then day had dawned, the bright light chasing away all the impossible things, and Rick had decided that the Dixon brothers were pulling a fast one on him, trying to distract him with thoughts of ghosts and ghouls, and Shane was just a manifestation of his own guilt, and it didn’t matter because he was done with all of that anyways. He was going to give Daryl’s way a try, and if that didn’t work out- well, he’d settle it when it came to that.

The grocery store was packed- early afternoon on a Saturday, he couldn’t have picked a worse time if he’d tried- and Rick’s quick run in to get something for dinner became a grueling test of endurance that featured screaming children, blue-haired old ladies using their carts as battering rams, and a glass jar of mayonnaise dropping and shattering close enough to spatter Rick’s boots and pants. He was feeling punch-drunk and exhausted, and was three seconds away from arresting the whole damn store when he finally managed to escape, his single plastic bag clutched close to his body and his left hip aching where one particularly vicious granny had used her cart to swat him out of her way. He was, therefore, in no frame of mind to deal with this shit when he found a stranger leaning on the hood of his car.

“Deputy Grimes?” the man asked, slow and careful, like he was afraid of the answer, and Rick paused a moment to look him over. Older, but not old, curly silver hair, keen eyes and a snake-oil smile. Something in him reminded Rick of Daryl, but only superficially.

“And you are?” Rick countered. He wasn’t in uniform- didn’t stop him from reaching for his gun- but it wasn’t a big town, people knew him on sight despite the street clothes.

“I’m Joe Catton,” the man said easily, if anything only settling himself further onto Rick’s car, sparing a single amused glance for the hand reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. “Family friend of the Dixon boys.”

Something cold and sharp slid down Rick’s spine, something like foreboding. This man was nothing like Daryl- he was dangerous, in ways Rick hadn’t thought Daryl of being even despite everything that had come between them. He was more like Merle, more like the men Rick spent his days arresting.

“Family friend,” he echoed with a sharp smile, shaking his head a little. “That must be interesting.”

“Oh, it is,” Joe said. He swept his gaze up and down Rick slowly, measuring him, looking for defects. “You look tired, deputy,” he observed. “Late night study sessions with your neighbor?” he asked, far too calculated to be implying something lewd, and Rick took a moment of his own to study the other man.

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he said coolly, unlocking his car and tossing his plastic bag onto the passenger’s seat. He had every intention of leaving this madhouse parking lot in the next ninety seconds, regardless of whether he was taking Joe for a ride or not.

“It’s not,” Joe said, eyeing Rick again. He pushed off from the car and took a step back, a smile teasing at the edge of his lips. “He hasn’t told you a thing, has he?” he asked, and Rick couldn’t quite stop his flinch. So there was one more person who knew everything Rick didn’t, who was laughing at him behind his back, and even in his face. One more person to lie and deny and just generally make Rick out to look a fool.

“Did you need somethin’?” he snapped, and Joe backed away, raising his hands slightly.

“I heard something about Daryl pulling in a civilian for his partner,” he said, and if that was supposed to explain anything, then he was going to have to do better than that. “Didn’t seem his style, but I thought I’d check.”

“If I ask what that’s supposed to mean, are you gonna lie to me, too?” Rick asked, and Joe smiled again, harmless and placating, and oh yeah, this man was dangerous. Daryl wore his competency on his sleeve, made it clear to everyone he met that he was a serious badass- but Joe went the quiet route, and Rick didn’t like it. Somehow, this man set off more warning bells than both Dixon brothers combined.

“No, I won’t lie to you,” Joe said easily. “I don’t much like lyin’. I just won’t answer.” He gave Rick a helpless shrug, like he couldn’t help being an uncommunicative, uncooperative pain in the ass, and Rick slammed the car door shut hard enough to shake the entire vehicle and stalked over to the older man, predator-smooth. He could be plenty dangerous, too.

“Then you’d best move on,” he said calmly, icily, and something shifted in Joe’s face, a quicksilver-fast flash of something primal and vicious rising and fading away again.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “But you’d best keep your distance from Daryl, if you’re not involved in this. It’s only going to get uglier from here.”

Rick said nothing- nothing to be said to that, not from his corner- and Joe moved away, careful and cautious like he was walking a tightrope, like he was reining himself in. He spared Rick one last glance as he went, and there was something like triumph in his eyes, in his smile, and for a moment Rick felt curiously angry, fiercely protective- he wanted to guard Daryl from this man, wanted to protect him- but he shoved that aside. It wasn’t his place, Daryl had made that abundantly clear. Instead, he circled around to the driver’s side of his car and got in, started up the engine immediately and cranked up the AC.

One more mystery. Just what he needed.

\-----

_June 16th, 10.54 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

The pain had come back. After almost three weeks of sleeping easily, of just barely feeling it and only then when he moved wrong, after almost forgetting it, the pain was coming back. He checked on the scar in the mirror compulsively- four neat holes, punched into his left side in two pairs, like a big dog had bitten him. He’d had it checked out at the hospital and they’d given him all the shots and it had healed up fast and neat but it _burned_ now, the marks an vivid angry red.

He twisted around in his bed, kicking the sheets away from his sweaty skin, then whining low in his throat and grabbing for them again, dragging them back up over him as he shivered. It felt like a fever, for all that the thermometer kept insisting his temperature was normal. Whatever the case was, he was far too restless to sleep, his apartment suddenly too small for him, the walls closing in- he was out of bed before he knew it, pacing up and down the length of his bedroom, tripping over his discarded jeans and honest-to-god snarling at them, like a mad dog.

The curtains fell open at a tug, one ripping free of its hooks and pooling onto the ground at his feet. He rolled back on his heels, his head tilted back. The moonlight shone into the room, lighting it up bright as sunlight- the moon wasn’t full yet, but it was fat and bright and beautiful, and he breathed it in like air.

He wanted to- he had to- he needed to get out of here, to just go, to run in the moonlight, to soak it in. He scrabbled for the jeans on the floor but left them when trying to put them on proved too complicated, looked for his shoes but gave them up for a lost cause as soon as he saw the knots in the laces. He pushed out of his apartment, panting like he was going to be sick, staggering down the hallway in just his boxers, his skin shivering and itching like it suddenly didn’t fit right. One of his neighbors- a fellow college student, home for the summer like him- was standing at her door, and she asked him a question, her voice blurring into nonsense. He pushed her aside, ignoring her yelp, and ran for the stairs, unable to wait for the elevator.

Outside, in the night, he could breathe. For a moment, that was all he did- then his head came up at an echo of a noise, a faint howl, like there was a wolf in town, and his throat burned with the urge to howl in answer. Instead, he leaned his head back, drinking in the moonlight.

The moon was so very full, so very beautiful- and he ran.


	9. attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must have rewrote the first- very long, very, very long- scene about eight times, trying to figure out which version worked best. I settled on this one 'cause I decided Glenn is a badass who don't need nobody to rescue him, thank you very much.

_June 17th, 12.29 a.m.  
The Rhee house, Ashlyn_

Glenn didn’t wake up when the crash came from outside- he was already awake, tossing and turning and grinning stupidly at his bedroom ceiling, his nerves singing, his entire body too wide awake for sleep to be a possibility. Maggie Greene had _kissed him_ , had given him a swift peck on the lips and a promise of more in the form of a flirty smirk. He’d come home grinning fit to split his face, floating around like his feet weren’t even touching the earth anymore, and hadn’t his kid sisters given him all kinds of hell over it- but they didn’t understand, they weren’t old enough to understand. They were still teenagers, falling in and out of love regular as clockwork, convinced every guy that caught their eye was _my soulmate, god, Grandma, you’re ruining my life_. This wasn’t some Saturday afternoon crush masquerading as the real thing.

He was planning out ways of scrounging money so he could take Maggie out someplace relatively fancy, in light of them being proper adults and not teenagers with Saturday afternoon crushes, when there was a crash- _bang_ outside, like a car backfiring right outside his window. He sat bolt upright, eyes on the window, but his bedroom was on the second floor and there was nothing to see but tree branches and the obnoxiously yellow streetlight. The noise continued, a clattering and rolling noise, and Glenn knew those sounds- a young raccoon had gotten into their garbage bin last spring and got itself caught inside, not strong enough to push the lid up and let itself back out or knock the bin over and crawl out. He kicked his blanket away and walked over to the window, pressing his face against the glass as he squinted down into the driveway. Sure enough, the trash bin was on its side, the single bag inside ripped open and spilling out onto the pavement.

With a tired groan, Glenn picked up his jeans and pulled them on, hopping gracelessly on one foot like some sort of demented wading bird when one of the legs of the jeans twisted itself into a knot as he was pulling it on. He was the Man Of The House, and so had to deal with icky things, like dead mice left lying around by the cat, live spiders in the bathtub, and raccoons in the garbage. He shrugged on a shirt from his not-too-dirty-to-wear pile and headed outside, stopping only long enough to grab a flashlight. Between that and the streetlight and the nearly-full moon, he’d have enough light to work by that he didn’t need to turn on the porch light. He went out through the garage door, grabbing his grandmother’s gardening gloves and only opening the big garage door just enough for him to duck out so the rattling noise of it rolling up wouldn’t wake up any of the women in the house.

It was just plain creepy outside, well-lit but still shadow-lined, more darkness than there should have been, boiling in the corners and cracks and oozing out. The moonlight was false brightness, gilding the world silver to counteract the sickly gold from the streetlight, but it only brushed over the surfaces, it didn’t shine into the shadows. Glenn flipped the flashlight on and shone it around in a broad sweep, looking for something he wasn’t entirely sure he could name- eyes shining in the dark, maybe- but mostly just to prove to himself that there was nothing to fear, no reason for his skin to be crawling or for the hairs on his arms and nape of his neck to be standing at attention. 

Raccoons were the number-one carrier of rabies in Georgia, and evil bastards besides, so Glenn squatted down well away from the garbage bin and pointed his flashlight into it, sweeping the beam of light over the mound of the trash bag and into the depths of the bin beyond it. After checking twice to be sure it was empty- and one more time, because the last thing he needed was to get bit and sit through a round of painful rabies shots- he moved over to the bin and knelt down next to it, carefully avoiding the various bits of detritus from the garbage bag. He pulled the gloves on and started shoving the trash back into the bag, just shoveling the stuff back over the lip of the bin so it wouldn’t fall out when he stood it back upright, and he was almost done when something moved behind him.

Glenn whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, staring wide-eyed into the false-lit world around him. He fumbled for the flashlight and dropped it twice, the glove slimy with trash mucus, so he yanked the glove off with his teeth and grabbed the light up and aimed it around, moving it in short jerky motions. It had been a whisper of noise, a breath of movement- mostly, it had just been the sudden, instinctive understanding that something was behind him, borne from his animal hindbrain.

There was nothing around, not at raccoon-height, not at dog-height, not even at human-height, and this was all getting a little too horror-movie spooky for him. He turned back to the trash for a moment, but only a moment. There was something in him, some bone-deep understanding- like how, the first time he watched a Halloween movie, he _knew_ Michael Meyers was lurking in his bedroom closet, waiting with terrible patience for him to close his eyes- he’d spent far too many late nights watching trashy horror flicks, his sisters grabbing onto him and shrieking and jumping at every single cheap-out scare. He knew what always happened to the guy who shrugged off the creepy because he thought nothing was out there.

He swung back around, fast, and started to point the flashlight down the driveway- only to drop it with a sharp gasp, because there was someone standing barely ten feet away. It was just a guy, half-lit by the streetlight, his head tilted to the side, his hands dangling oddly at his sides.

“Jesus,” Glenn said, dropping his head forward briefly with a semi-hysterical laugh. “You scared the shit outta me.”

The guy- white, dark-haired, young, basically nondescript- made a noise. It sounded like thunder, low and threatening, a storm on the horizon. He was growling, and when Glenn looked again, he couldn’t look away from the way the guy’s eyes were reflecting the light, like a cat’s.

With slow, careful movements, Glenn reached down and picked up the flashlight. It had switched off when it hit the ground, and Glenn tapped it against his knee once or twice, staring unblinking at the guy, like if he broke eye contact for even half a second, it would be his last mistake ever.

The flashlight flared to life, its beam shining directly on the guy’s face, and he rolled away with a roar of pain that no human throat could produce.

Glenn was low to the ground, and near enough to the garage door that when he lunged for it, he mostly made it. He rolled to one side, dragging his feet in, not even trying to pull the door down after him- it was thin clapboard wood, probably wouldn’t withstand a toddler’s attack, but the door into the house was solid and heavy and had a lock and the guy wasn’t getting to him without aid of an axe if Glenn got it shut between them- but he’d barely gotten himself up into the classic runner’s start when pain ripped through his leg and he was hitting the ground again, his teeth clacking sharply together. He looked over his shoulder, his hands clawing uselessly at the smooth cement floor of the garage- and there was the guy, kneeling on the other side of the garage door, face twisted into an expression of animalistic rage. He jerked, and Glenn slid out towards him despite his desperate scrabbling for some sort of a handhold, agony ripping up through his captured leg in blinding spikes, and god fucking _damn_ his grandmother for being such an organized neat freak, that whole ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’ shit was going to get him _killed_.

Glenn was halfway out of the garage, the snarls behind him turning triumphant in their tone, when his frantic searching found a weapon- the flashlight. Laughter, dark and hysterical and hopeless, rose up in Glenn’s throat- but it had worked once, so maybe.

He rolled over, pointed the flashlight straight at those creepy reflective eyes, and snapped it on.

The guy howled, honest-to-god howled like a kicked dog, and while he didn’t exactly let go, his grip loosened enough that Glenn could kick his leg free. He followed that up by planting his foot into the guy’s chin, snapping his head back and knocking him back on his ass.

Wild and desperate, bloody and crippled, Glenn rolled over again, army-crawled back into the garage and pushed himself frantically up to his feet, running for the door to the house. He hit the door hard, his still-gloved hand scrambling slippery and useless on the knob before he thought to switch hands. Behind him, the garage door rattled as though something had hit it, and Glenn didn’t dare look. He had the house door open, he was sliding inside, he was in and shutting the heavy door behind him-

Three fingers snaked their way between the door and the jamb, and for a moment, Glenn was utterly focused on them. They were _wrong_ , something just barely off about them- the long bones of the fingers were too long, Glenn realized after a moment, too long and too thin like he’d gotten his hands caught in the vacuum cleaner hose, cartoon-style- although he couldn’t focus on that nearly so well when he saw the claws, long and sharp like a lizard’s.

The door juddered as the thing on the other side threw its weight against it, and Glenn was bounced away. He slammed his shoulder back into it and brought up the flashlight and brought the battery end down in the middle of the long bones, once then again, then again and again. The door kept the thing’s hand caught even as it tried to pull away, and Glenn was drawing blood now, the curved ridge of plastic mangling the fragile flesh, small flashes of white bone underneath-

He was screaming, he realized distantly, only it wasn’t screaming so much as roaring, the primal, furious roar of the warrior. In that second, all there was to him was violence and anger.

The thing was howling again. Then, with an abrupt twist and shove, the hand disappeared and Glenn bashed the flashlight once against the doorframe and the abused plastic cracked, the wildly dancing light dying instantly. In the dark silence that followed, Glenn leaned against the door, panting and bleeding and shivering. His leg was aching, and his chin was dripping blood onto his neck from where he’d bashed it on the cement floor, and he’d broken his nails and possibly even tore off one or two in his desperate scramble for freedom- but he was _alive_.

There was noises from upstairs, bare feet padding along the hallway at a run, his sisters calling out for him in concern. He pushed away, wobbling on his injured leg, heading for the stairs. Then he stopped and turned back, reaching out and locking the door, just on principle, before he turned back to go upstairs and try to figure out what the hell just happened.

\-----

_June 17th, 6.44 a.m.  
King County Hospital_

He took the time to shave, clean himself up a little- all dolled up in neat, untorn jeans and a button-up shirt that smelled of closet dust- actually washed his hair with real shampoo instead of his normal quick scrub with a handful of soap lather, pushed it back so it was sleek along his skull instead of sheepdog-shaggy around his face. It wasn't much of a disguise, but it worked- the two cops in the hospital lobby didn’t recognize him, didn’t so much as spare him a single glance, let alone a second. He was just Citizen Joe, everyman, not Daryl Dixon, potential murderer. In their defense, they were dealing with what Daryl could only assume was the distraught family- an old woman and two teenage girls, all dressed in pajamas and bathrobes, all babbling at the cops in two different languages.

Grimes wasn’t one of the two cops. Daryl spared a few seconds longer than he should have looking for him, his breath stupidly caught in his throat- it’d be harder for him to get this done with Grimes here, he reasoned to himself, he was trying to determine the presence of a possible threat, that was all- before he turned away, ducking past the nurse’s station and heading to the elevators in a determined stride. Hospitals were easy; act like you belong, and everyone will be too busy dealing with everyday hospital chaos to question it. It did mean he spent an aimless twenty minutes searching for the right room, because stopping to ask would ruin the illusion of belonging.

He found the right room eventually, and leaned against the doorframe, watching the kid beyond. His chin was stitched up and three of his fingers carefully bandaged, and his right leg was one giant white boot of bandages from the knee down. He was lying disconsolately in the bed, lifting his bad foot up and lowering it again, like he was trying to test its range of motion.

“Glenn Rhee?” Daryl asked finally. He’d gotten the name, the report of the attack, from the police scanner he’d set up in his kitchen. He was monitoring it, and news sites on his phone, almost obsessively- week of the full moon, the attacks would start soon, although this was even sooner than he’d expected.

There was the very real, very sickening possibility- probability- total likelihood that he was going to have to kill this kid. Not here, where there were cameras and cops and more witnesses than he could count, but soon, before moonrise that night.

“Yeah,” the kid said, his head coming up. He smiled sloppily at Daryl and waved one hand a little. “Hey, I’m Glenn,” he said, slurring his words a little more than a little, and Daryl smiled despite himself. Drugged, then, and Daryl liked drugged people. They were so much easier to handle. “Who’re you?” he asked.

Daryl had been planning to say reporter- he knew all the questions a reporter would ask, could bullshit newspaper names like nobody’s business- reporters could get places a cop couldn’t, got people to tell them stories they wouldn’t tell a cop, and it wasn’t illegal to falsely claim to be one. Hunters pretended to be reporters more than all other occupations combined.

Still- still. Still, the kid had faced down a _werewolf_ , and this was most likely the last day of his life, and he was drugged out of his skull. Daryl could begrudge him a little bit of honesty.

“ ‘M Daryl,” he said, easing a few steps into the room. He unfolded his arms and slid one hand into his pocket, tracing his fingers over the curve of warm metal, lightly touching at the sharp tip. It had been a pain in the ass, getting the head off the arrow, and it would be an even bigger one getting it back on, but it was better than hauling the entire arrow around with him. He slid it out, palmed the arrowhead and moved forward some more.

“Hey,” Glenn said again, and smiled, then stopped and frowned and reached up to touch at the stitches in his chin as if he'd only just realized they were there. Daryl moved closer still while he was distracted- the downside to having just the silver arrowhead meant he’d have to be in arm’s reach of the kid to use it.

“So what happened?” Daryl asked, casual and careless like they were old friends and were just picking up the conversation where they’d left off. Painkillers were great like that.

“It was a guy,” Glenn said solemnly, turning his sincere gaze on Daryl. “A guy with knives.” He spread his hands and wiggled his fingers in a motion that could have meant anything, and Daryl stepped closer still. Almost within reach, now.

“Yeah, knives,” he said calmly. “Bullshit.”

Glenn blinked at him, and his dark eyes cleared a little bit, a storm gathering on his face- not completely out of it, then, and gathering himself rapidly, so not a heavy-duty painkiller either. “Bullshit, yourself,” he spat back at Daryl. “You weren’t there.”

“No,” Daryl allowed. He reached out but withdrew again almost immediately. He had never touched anyone to offer comfort before, had no idea how it was done. Then he scoffed at himself, because he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit there and have a normal conversation with someone he was going to have to kill in the next twelve hours. He couldn’t not know. Maybe Merle could, maybe Joe could- hell, maybe every hunter on Earth but Daryl could- but he couldn’t just sit here and talk to this kid and _not know_.

He reached out again, not caring if it was awkward or socially inappropriate, put his hand over Glenn’s so the tip of the silver arrowhead was pressing against the kid’s skin, then twisted his wrist and jerked away fast.

“Ow!” Glenn yelped, recoiling instantly, clamping his other hand over the offended area. “What was that?” he demanded, and whatever they’d dosed him with was definitely wearing off, eroding under the weight of his anger. Daryl boldly reached out and tugged his hand away, studying the wound, watching as beads of blood sluggishly welled up. There was no reaction, no burning like he’d been touched with acid, no blistering, no screams of pain.

“Didn’t get bit,” he said in slight disbelief, and that was real relief in his voice- he hadn’t wanted to kill this kid, hadn’t wanted to destroy that family he’d seen downstairs. He didn’t have that sort of callousness in him anymore, if he ever had.

He moved to tuck the arrowhead away, but Glenn was almost fully with it now, and mad to boot. “No, wait, what was that?” he demanded, grabbing Daryl’s wrist, and for a moment they both froze, waiting for the other to move first. Finally Glenn turned his hand over, and Daryl let him, cupping his hand and letting the arrowhead roll free across his palm. The kid stared at it, the metal shining brightly in a way steel could never manage. “Silver?” he asked finally, his face gone pale, his throat working uselessly as he tried and failed to swallow.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. He pulled free- show and tell time over- and retreated instantly, tucking the arrowhead into his pocket. “You’re safe,” he said, and Glenn looked up at him.

“Safe from what?” he asked, his voice shaking a little. “Safe from you? Safe from that- that- _thing_?” He pushed himself up on his elbow, twisting around so he was facing Daryl, angry and scared and determined. “What the hell was that thing?” he demanded.

There was a time for dissembling and there was a time for honesty, and Glenn had information Daryl needed and Daryl had information Glenn wanted. It took him a couple tries, a few false starts, a clearing of his throat- but finally Daryl overrode a lifetime’s training and told the god’s honest truth. “Werewolf,” he said, and the hospital room was silent, not even the beeping of a heart monitor to break the silence.

“Yeah,” Glenn said after a long moment. “Werewolf, yeah, sure,” he said, nodding to himself, and he collapsed back onto the bed, dragging his hands over his face. Daryl wasn’t sure if this was sarcasm or disbelief or even- impossible as it was- acceptance. After a moment, Glenn took his hands off his face and looked over at Daryl again. “He had claws,” he said, whispered soft as a confessor kneeling before a priest, and Daryl moved closer again. Fucking _finally_ , he was getting somewhere on this wild goose chase of a hunt.

“You got a good look at him?” he asked, and Glenn shrugged.

“Yeah, kinda,” he said helplessly. “I mean, he was just a guy. White guy, dark hair, my age. Just a guy.”

As of last night, they were still seven nights out from the full moon, so the transformation would only be partial. The wolf hadn’t been operating at its full capabilities, which was good news for Glenn- he’d survived- but also bad. This early in the moon cycle, residual human emotions and grudges bled over enough to more or less control the beast’s actions, subconsciously pointing it at someone they felt deserved their wrath. Glenn had been specifically targeted, and as the week went on and the full moon approached, the wolf would only get faster and more dangerous. In three days, the human half wouldn’t have the control to point the wolf at Glenn anymore- but Glenn wouldn’t survive one more night, let alone three.

“It knocked over the trash can,” Glenn said, and Daryl looked up, broken out of his thoughts by the words. “To lure me outside,” he added, almost asked, then looked up at Daryl again, eyes bright with panic. “Was it targeting me?” he asked, sounding very young and very scared.

“Probably,” Daryl said, sounding like an uncaring asshole in direct contrast, and Glenn flinched a little. “You got someone who’d want to hurt you?” he asked, and Glenn scoffed a little.

“No,” he said. “I’m just the pizza delivery guy, why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t even really have a girlfriend yet,” he added in despair. “What do I do?” he asked, looking at Daryl, scared and hopeful and trusting, and it punched the air out of Daryl’s lungs. He was used to being the only thing standing between people and certain death- but this was the first time the person he was protecting knew it, the first time someone was looking to him for answers. He was used to the weight of that responsibility, but it hung heavily around his neck in that moment, choking him- no one had ever asked him what they should do before, and on the spot, he froze.

“Full moon’s on the twenty-third,” he said finally. “Get out of town an’ don’t come back ‘til the day after. It’ll be done, by then.” The werewolf would be dead, or at least had itself a close enough call with a hunter to encourage it moving on. If it was already transforming this far out from the full moon, and targeting specific people, it would be easy to locate.

He was halfway out the door- there was nothing else to be said, and he had to leave before he suffocated- when Glenn called out to him. “Hey, hey, wait,” he said, and Daryl turned back to him but didn’t approach. He held up his left hand and waggled his fingers a little. “I bashed its hand up pretty good when it was trying to get in the door,” he said, and Daryl blinked at that.

“How bad? Bad enough to go to the hospital?” he asked, and Glenn nodded.

“Yeah, probably- wait, do you think it’s _here_?” The kid practically levitated off his bed, scrambling up and looking around wildly like he expected werewolves to be hiding in the corner, under his bed, behind the blinds over the window. For one long moment, his eyes fastened on Daryl’s left hand- but the hunter held his hand up, fingers spread, showing the lack of damage, and the kid relaxed again.

“It might be,” Daryl said. “They ain’t dangerous ‘til the sun’s gone down, though, so you’re safe for now.”

“Okay,” Glenn said, nodding. Daryl hesitated a second longer, because this kid not only faced down a werewolf, but did some damage of his own and didn’t get bit, and that was impressive by anyone’s standards.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, and when Glenn looked up at him, he added, “Good job, kid,” before he ducked away, leaving Glenn speechless in his little room.

He was almost at the elevators when he heard the voices- the careful pronunciation of accented English, common to people who learned it late in life, two younger voices, and one deeper, male, familiar enough to send Daryl’s stomach plummeting. He veered off, heading for the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, ducked his head and turned his face away as he walked-

\- and Rick fucking Grimes came around the corner, the Rhee family clustered around him. “-pretty good friends,” Grimes was saying to the old woman, his head dipped politely so he could speak to her despite the solid foot difference in height. “He’s a good kid,” he added, and Daryl brushed past them without comment, without a glance- Rick didn’t even notice him, not until it was too late. Daryl stopped at the door to the stairs to steal one daring look, and as he watched, Rick stiffened with sudden realization and snapped his head around sharply, meeting Daryl’s gaze unerringly- but he was too far away, and Daryl was through the door and gone before he could even think of saying something.

\-----

_June 17th, 11.01 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Daryl’s house was dark and silent, his bike absent from the driveway- nobody home, or somebody home doing a very good impression of nobody home, when Rick had stormed over earlier to pound on the door. He couldn’t really blame the jackass, after that stunt in the hospital- whatever _that stunt in the hospital_ had been, as Glenn sure as hell wasn't telling. If anything, that stung most of all- that Daryl had dragged Glenn into whatever was going on, but wouldn’t tell anything to Rick, who was practically begging to be let in on it.

Well, no, not really. What stung most of all was how Rick couldn’t close his eyes without picturing Daryl as he was in the hospital- clean-shaved, well dressed, hair out of his face- and aching with want for him, because that just wasn’t _fair_. Rick had never had to fight to control his hormones like this- the only other person he’d ever fantasized about, dreamed about while awake, had married him four months after their high school graduation. He hadn’t known, until now, what it was to want someone he could never have, and he didn’t much care for it.

He had wandered aimlessly into the kitchen, staring down at the remains of dinner- he’d volunteered to put the leftovers away and do the dishes, and Carl had happily gone upstairs and left him to it- when he finally decided he was done with all of that. He and Daryl had reached an agreement of sorts, and so long as no one else died, he would trust the other man to hold up his end. He stood up, sweeping the plates off the table into his hands, and headed over to the sink. The burner hadn’t been turned off completely and the frying pan had food baked onto it, and Rick sighed at the sight- he was tempted to just chuck it and buy another one, but he ran it under hot water instead, picking at the blackened food with a butter knife, trying to scrape it off without scratching the pan.

He'd made a decent amount progress when he leaned back a little, taking a breath of fresh air, not soap-scented steam- fresh, cold air. Very cold.

The overhead light flickered, died, came on, died again, and Rick closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening, couldn't be real- this wasn't happening- and yet, it was.

“Shane,” he said softly, and he was sure that everything- miles of road, years of friendship, love and betrayal and heartbreak- was laid bare in his voice. He very deliberately put the pan down, turned off the water, and turned, and Shane was there, close enough to kiss, bloody and handsome.

For one moment, Rick thought, _maybe_ -

-then Shane’s hand slammed into him and Rick staggered, pain ripping ice-cold through him, tearing apart his chest like something inside him wanted out. He choked on a scream, stammered out a plea, and Shane said nothing, just pressed tighter against him, the pain doubling in on itself. Rick’s knees folded and he dropped hard, Shane rolling down with him, kneeling close like he was holding Rick, like he was nursing him through the pain instead of causing it- icy fingers around his heart, claws twisting into him, tearing and ripping, and Rick couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, could feel it slowing, stopping.

It was almost a mercy when everything went black.


	10. spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is long, my dears. Call it compensation for that extremely evil cliffhanger.
> 
> Also, Supernatural fans will begin to notice discrepancies between my version of the werewolf and the show's version. This is mostly because Supernatural changes their approach to werewolves with every new episode that features one, and I got tired of that and picked my own version.
> 
> (although, really, did anyone honestly think i'd kill rick?)

_June 17th, 10.58 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Daryl sat in the darkness of his house, listening to his police scanner and constantly updating the local news website on his phone. Grimes had almost kicked his door in a few hours before, and Daryl wasn’t willing to tempt fate- he was suddenly tired of fighting, tired of the lies and the arguing, and he wanted nothing more to do with the man. He could fake being anywhere else but here until Grimes went to bed. So he sat in the darkness, banished, and tried not to sulk, feeling inexplicably like he’d lost something precious.

He traced his fingers in arcane patterns over the flat side of his lighter, flipping it over and over in his hand, for a lack of anything else to do with his hands. Finally he flipped it open and dragged his thumb over the catch, a small spray of sparks briefly lighting up the kitchen in a miniature bloom of fireworks. Then he reached his other hand into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, slid one out and put it in his mouth. For one long second, he considered it, the lighter not lit but hovering where it needed to be to light up the cigarette- no one would notice, no one would care.

Then he shoved his chair back and pushed himself up, practically jumping away from the table, and paced away into the living room. He pushed out through the back door onto the porch- Carl went into the backyard a lot more than his dad, and while Daryl wasn’t in the mood for the kid’s chilly disapproval, it would be worlds better to be caught out here by him than the elder Grimes- and stopped and breathed, the early summer night air still crisp, not yet boggy and hot. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out- snapped the lighter open and dipped his head down, lowering the cigarette and turning his head a little-

It took him a few precious seconds to process what he was seeing- the kitchen window in Grimes’ house faced Daryl’s yard, and through it he could see the lights stuttering, a tall broad-shouldered figure that flickered- but then Daryl’s brain caught up.

The lighter and the cigarette both fell, immediately forgotten- the back door tried to stick on him, as it sometimes did, and he set his shoulder to it and forced it open. Grabbed his crossbow, with one precious iron-tipped arrow in the quiver under its nose, off the kitchen table and _ran_ , breathless, the world gone still and silent around him. The front door flew open and he vaulted the porch railing instead of going down the stairs. His bare feet sunk into the cool grass- no shoes, didn’t matter- and he ran across the yard.

Spirits killed fast- he wasn’t thinking about that, though. He was thinking _I should have known, I should’ve fucking known_ \- the werewolf had taken priority but he’d trusted a man’s _life_ to a single salt line. He’d done this. If Grimes was dead, Daryl might as well have killed him himself- and after Hattiesburg, after Sparrow and Merle, he couldn’t take that blow again. There would be no getting back up, no putting the pieces back together and learning to live with the seamwork scars. He would shatter completely.

The front door to the Grimes house was locked, and Daryl hit it like a freight train, the doorframe fracturing around the lock and the door slamming open. He brought his crossbow up as he moved into the house, heading to the kitchen off of glimpses he’d caught through windows. There were two figures in the kitchen, one sprawled broken-doll limp across the floor before the sink, the other standing over him and looking down on him, like some great terrible god claiming his vengeance. It turned, moving with the stop-motion grace of a nightmare, and Daryl barely spared it a glance, just enough to firm up his aim- then he pulled the trigger.

There was no fanfare, no dramatic screams or wails- just one moment the spirit was there, the next it had shattered like fine glass, like a handful of sand tossed into a strong breeze, and was gone. Daryl slid over to Grimes, crouching over the man. He pulled the crossbow string back one-handed and jerked the arrow out of the cabinet door where it’d lodged after dispelling the spirit and slotted it back into place, his finger on the trigger the whole time. Then, and only then, he reached out to Rick, his hand shaking as he slid his fingers under the man’s collar, pressing in over the pulse point. His skin was cold to the touch, but not death-cold, and a slight puff of air brushed warmth over Daryl’s wrist even as he found Rick’s pulse- weak and fluttery but evening out and getting stronger even as Daryl found it. He dropped his head forward, weak with sudden relief.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Rick watching him, his eyes open to slits, dark with pain. “You,” he said roughly, like he meant to say something else but ran out of words, so quiet Daryl barely heard it.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. He still had his hand on Rick’s neck, and he drew it away hastily, grabbing a handful of Rick’s shirt and carefully pulling him upright, leaning him back against the cupboards. The cop gasped, chest heaving and face screwed up in pain, one hand coming up to spread over his heart. His other hand wrapped around Daryl’s wrist, anchoring himself with Daryl’s unflinching steadiness, and Daryl let him hold on.

Then there were footsteps in the living room, quick and hurried with panic. “Dad?” Carl called, very obviously alarmed, and Rick’s eyes snapped open. He braced himself against the floor and Daryl’s knee and tried to stand, too-long legs weak and awkward like a newborn colt.

“Dad, I think someone tried to break in,” Carl said, and stopped there, in the kitchen doorway. Daryl twisted around enough to see him, and he was staring at the crossbow Daryl had aimed at the kitchen at large. Daryl’s skin was crawling, his heart rate picking up- his body knew, even if his mind didn’t, that something was coming, and this kid was about to put himself smack in the middle of it.

“Carl-” Rick began, still struggling with his breath, still trying to stand, his grip tight enough to bruise on Daryl’s knee.

The air stuttered, flickered, and then there was a soft scraping noise, and Daryl threw himself forward over Rick as a long sharp knife slid off the counter and winged straight at them. There was a shivery slice of pain, barely skin-deep, then the knife clattered against the stove door and fell to the floor. Daryl grabbed for it before the spirit could and sneered.

“Fuckin’ baby spirits,” he muttered- newbies, shitty aim and slipshod control, and thank god for it. He twisted around, glancing briefly at his shoulder where the knife had hit- hardly even bleeding- before turning around further, to Carl, who was standing there with that particular expression of terror and confusion that most people had upon seeing a spirit for the first time. “Get your sister and get out,” he ordered.

“But-” Carl began, and Daryl _did not_ have time for this shit.

“Get _out_!” he roared, and Carl went. Daryl turned back to Rick, who seemed to be tracking better now. He was steady determination, steel down to his core, more hunter than hunted. Daryl grabbed him under the arm and hauled him up to his feet, where he wavered for a moment but shored himself up quickly. “C’mon,” Daryl said brusquely, keeping his hold and starting to move away, towing the other man with him. “Gotta get you outta here.”

Rick stood his ground, set in place like stone and a hell of a lot stronger than he looked, and Daryl would most likely win if it came to pure brute strength but that would take more time than they had. Of fucking _course_ the moron decided to get stubborn in the kitchen, of all places, a room filled with sharp pointy objects just begging to be thrown at them. “My kids-” he began.

“They’re good,” Daryl said, trying one last time to budge him, to no avail. “It ain’t after them anyways,” he added, distracted, giving serious consideration to throwing the other man over his shoulder- he was big enough, he could manage it, with Rick still reeling from the spirit attack.

“ _It_ is Shane,” Rick snapped back. “Maybe I can-”

“No, you can’t, ‘cause it ain’t Shane anymore,” Daryl spoke over him- then snapped his head up at the sound of clattering and crashing, looked over to see the kitchen table leaning over, falling onto its side so the top was facing them. It slid right across the floor, heading towards the two men, aiming to trap them back against the counter behind them-

He wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, or if they moved together- but in the second it took to process this new threat, they were moving, Daryl turning and slamming back into the refrigerator hard enough to shock the breath out of his lungs, Rick in turn slamming into him, barely out of the path of the table as it slammed into the cupboards. Daryl didn’t have the time to consider the awkwardness of this before the air beyond Rick was stuttering, a figure sketching itself onto the world.

He still had the knife in one hand, turned in and pressed flat against his body so as to not accidentally stab Rick. He tossed it aside and brought his crossbow down behind Rick, wrapping his arms around the other man in a rough hug, barely taking the time to aim- this close, he didn’t need it- before he pulled the trigger. The spirit shattered again, the air going still and silent, heavy with expectation and anticipation, but they had a few seconds, at least, before it pulled itself back together. Young spirits had shitty control, but their rage burned brighter- faster recovery, more determined chasing. And this was personal.

Daryl lifted his crossbow up over Rick’s head. “Out,” he said, and this time, Rick didn’t argue.

The front door was still wide open, Carl on the porch with a wailing bundle of blankets in his arms, doing an unhappy little dance in place as he waited anxiously for them. Rick paused to look at the ruined lock and the shattered doorframe, but Daryl pushed him on.

“Anyone tries to come in here, they’re gonna hafta deal with _that_ ,” he said, jerking his chin to indicate the house in general, the spirit lurking somewhere within, and Rick spared him a single glance of acknowledgment before he was out. Daryl paused in the doorway, looking into the house for a long moment- the air was still and dark, eerily silent. “Shane, huh?” he muttered, mostly to himself, and thought he saw something take shape in the darkness of the living room, the broad-shouldered frame of a man. “Ain’t got time for you,” Daryl told it, and shut the door as much as it would close on his way out.

The night outside was a shock after the house, the air thick and heavy and hot compared to the bitter cold of the spirit’s den, churring crickets and croaking frogs all as loud as screams after the sinister silence of a spirit’s attack. Daryl followed Rick down the porch stairs and into the yard, squinting up at the moon as he went. He reached around to the quiver of his crossbow, pulling one of the silver arrows free- they were far from safe yet.

Carl was pressed tight against his father, his hands shaking as he held onto his sister, but there was determination in his eyes, none of the blind, panicky fear left on his face- he had enough of his father in him for that, at least. And Rick- Rick was standing tall beside his son, his eyes on Daryl, watching him scan for danger, watching the arrow in his hand, the crossbow still at the ready- and he knew they weren’t safe yet. He was composed and calm and ready for anything, and in that second Daryl realized how badly he had underestimated this man.

There was still a werewolf out there somewhere, probably right now roaming streets and stalking yards, hunting cats and dogs and coons and possums- possibly even something bigger, something two-legged. There was a werewolf in this town, and Daryl had only two silver arrows and three civilians to protect.

“Come on,” he said, and moved away towards his house, leaving them to follow or not as they would, and wasn’t surprised in the least when Rick almost beat him to the door.

\-----

Daryl’s house was everything Rick would have expected of it, had he honestly thought about it- less like a house and more like a showroom, all bare cream walls and tastefully impersonal furniture, no pictures, no knickknacks or trinkets or decorations- the only room that showed any signs of habitation was the kitchen, where Daryl kept his police scanner and his beer. He didn’t live here, he existed here, and that only barely. It seemed sad, somehow, almost pitiful, and perfectly matched with the man himself- not a person living his life, just an automaton going through the motions.

Rick wanted answers, was going to get answers- would probably murder Daryl with his bare hands if the jackass even tried pulling that for-your-own-good crap again- but there were other, more pressing considerations, one especially noisy one in particular. He left Daryl and Carl to the task of finding a makeshift crib for Judith and locked himself into the bathroom, the heel of his hand pressing down over his heart, where he could still feel the pain like a shard of ice lodged in his chest. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it carefully away from his skin, where cold sweat had plastered it down, expecting to see- something. He didn’t know what.

There were five bloody marks framing his heart, dug in deep, perfectly matched to the pattern of an outspread hand like someone had tried to reach right into his chest. In some small, insane way, Rick was glad the marks were there- no way he could convince himself he’d dreamed it all, not with the bleeding proof carved into his own chest. He didn’t have nails long enough to do this sort of damage to himself, and- he spread his own hand out over the marks, lining his fingers up properly- his hand wasn’t quite big enough anyways.

Shane’s were, some mutinous part of him thought- _it ain’t Shane anymore_ \- and he remembered the feeling of big strong hands on him, slapping his shoulder, wrapping around his waist, splayed over his back, sense-memory as vivid as though it had been yesterday.

There were footsteps in the hallway outside the bathroom, Carl asking questions and Daryl parsing out his non-answers. Rick hastily did up most of the buttons on his shirt and ducked out after them, noting the way Daryl went subtly tense and rolled back on his heel, ready to attack in case it wasn’t Rick, but something dangerous- he was always on guard, always defensive and prepared for anything, and Rick didn’t know how he’d missed that. Maybe it was so much a part of Daryl that he couldn’t see it until he was looking specifically for it.

They came to a stop in the kitchen, Rick in the doorway and Daryl at the table, Carl the third point of their triangle, adrift in the middle of the room. Daryl hesitated, looking back and forth between the two newcomers like he had no idea what to do next, looking so obviously lost, and Rick realized abruptly that he was going to have to control and direct the conversation, ask all the questions to get the answers- Daryl clearly didn’t know where to start, or even how.

He dragged a hand down his face, scraped his fingers over his stubble- less stubble and more a proper beard, by now- and made a decision that would no doubt rank him as Shittiest Dad Ever, at least in Carl’s book.

“Carl, why don’t you head on upstairs, keep an eye on your sister,” he said, and Carl snapped his gaze around to him.

“What?” he demanded, and Rick almost winced at the look of betrayal on his face- almost. Instead, he thought about Ed Peletier, and Merle Dixon, and the two people who had died in Hattiesburg, and the cow in the field, and Daryl Dixon in the road, pacing and angry and fully _alive_ for the first time since Rick had met him, furious that Rick insisted on putting himself in harm’s way even when Daryl was trying to keep him out of it. _How do you think your boy would do against somethin’ that can do that_ , indeed- and now Rick had a better idea of what the _something_ was, and he wanted it nowhere near his family.

“You heard me,” Rick said, mild and quiet, trying not to air family issues in front of Daryl- although that seemed utterly pointless, all things considered. It didn’t matter too much, either, as Carl was inclined to fight.

“No way,” he said stubbornly, shaking his head. “No, I wanna know what’s going on, I wanna help.”

“No,” Rick said, uncompromising, uncaring- shutting the argument down. It wasn’t happening, plain and simple.

“I can help!” Carl protested. He turned to Daryl, seeking support from the other adult in the room, but Daryl had foreseen this and had turned away to fiddle with his police scanner, carefully distancing himself from the argument. “It’s not fair,” Carl continued, turning back to Rick, more stubborn now that it was just him versus his father, now that he had to stand on his own. “Shane was my friend too.”

It was a low blow, a sucker-punch of emotion, guilt foremost at the helm, and Rick sucked his breath in and couldn’t reply, didn’t have the faintest idea how to fight against that one. He rocked back on his heels and looked away, floundering- looked to Daryl, like Carl did, met a pale unreadable gaze. Then Daryl turned back to his scanner with hardly a glance at Carl.

“You wanna know how I got into this?” he asked, almost nonsensically, and when neither of the Grimeses replied, he carried on regardless. “My mom died when I was seven, an’ my old man started takin’ me out on hunting trips.” He looked back at Carl again, half-turned and lifted the hem of his shirt, showing a white rope of old scar tissue that ran over the flat plane of his stomach, just under his navel. It looked like something had gutted him, or near enough. “First time out, I got this,” he said, dropping his shirt again. “You don’t want to be stuck in this world. Go on upstairs.”

“I’m not scared,” Carl insisted, but he didn’t sound so sure now, and Daryl turned away from him, tugging at his shirt as if to be sure it was down all the way. Carl was looking at him anew, and so was Rick- studying his scars in a new light, wondering at the stories behind them.

“Fine,” Daryl said. “You come talk to me when you’re eighteen, an’ we’ll see. ‘Til then, I ain’t bringin’ a kid into this, so go upstairs or don’t, I don’t care. But that’s all you’re getting from me.”

There was a sense of finality in his words, the same finality Rick had heard from him only a handful of days ago- _we’re done_ \- and he knew for a fact there was no arguing with it. Carl protested a few more times, sulked and glowered, but ultimately went upstairs. Rick followed him to the stairs to be sure, then headed back into the kitchen, into the expectant and awkward silence. Daryl was pointedly ignoring him again, shoulders up and head down, and Rick knew the ball was in his court, so to speak. He circled the table, putting himself in Daryl’s line of sight, and gestured towards his stomach.

“What did that?” he asked, and Daryl glanced at him and looked away again quickly, somehow seeming squirmy without actually moving.

“Revenant,” he said, and before Rick could ask, “Like a zombie, but not.”

“So there’s a lot of those things out there,” Rick said. “Not just…” He couldn’t finish, gestured instead towards the wall behind him, and his house beyond.

“Spirits?” Daryl filled in, and snorted. “If you’ve heard of it, it’s probably out there somewhere, killin’ people.” He straightened up then, looked Rick in the eye, something like grim pride settling his shoulders in a stubborn line. “Was my job to stop ‘em.”

“Was?” Rick echoed, and Daryl nodded slightly.

“Used to be,” he allowed. “But I got out when Merle got arrested. Stupid to hunt alone, an’ I was tired of it anyways. ‘S a shitty job.” He spared Rick a quick glance, deprecating humor darkening his pale eyes. “Shitty pay, shitty hours, no thanks, get a job done an’ you gotta haul ass outta town before you get arrested.”

“So you hunted ghosts,” Rick said carefully, using Daryl’s word, and Daryl snorted again.

“Ghosts, yeah,” he said. “Vampires, zombies, witches.” He picked up his crossbow and pulled one of the arrows out, the metal head shining brightly, too brightly. “Shifters, skinwalkers, chupacabras, shtrigas, even a wendigo once,” he added. “Anythin’ that you think doesn’t exist.” He held the arrow out, and Rick took it, turning it over in his hands to study the metal. Its brightness wasn't a polish, it was a naturally shiny metal- and as Rick held it, he realized what it was, the soft metal cratering ever so slightly under the pressure of his fingers.

“What do you hunt with silver?” he asked, feeling somehow immensely stupid, like he was missing something blindingly obvious, and Daryl’s only response was to glance out the window, then pin Rick with a long, expectant stare. Rick looked as well, looked out into the darkness, the landscape painted silver with moonlight-

-from the _full moon_ -

“There’s a werewolf out there?” he asked, and for a moment he wanted to laugh- he was imaging the b-horror movie monster, a graceless hulk with long straggly hair and a hunchback- but then he thought of Ed, and the way the smile dropped off Merle’s face when he figured out what his brother was hunting, and suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore. “How bad is it?” he asked, rolling the arrow in his hand again, the silver tip catching the light and looking suddenly very, very small.

“ ‘Bout as bad as it gets,” Daryl said, not pulling his punches in the slightest. “Twenty-one days of the month, werewolves ain’t anythin’, but then,” and he nodded outside again, to the moonlight, and Rick could fill in the rest on his own. “They’re fast, strong,” he continued. “Dangerous. Dumb as shit, but they don’t need to be smart. They got everythin’ else.”

“The hearts?” Rick asked.

“ ‘S what they eat,” Daryl said. “Anythin’ll do, but they prefer human.”

Rick nodded and took in a slow, deep breath, bracing himself. “It’s through the bite?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said simply. He took the arrow again, testing its point on the side of his thumb. “ ‘S why they’re so dangerous. One bite, and you turn, guaranteed. Most times, they go months without even knowing what they are, 'til a hunter catches up to 'em.” He scooped up the crossbow, carefully pushing the arrow back into its slot in the quiver, obviously trying not to ruin the point. “Get one in a big city, it’ll kill four, five people a night, an’ turn two or three more.”

And from there, a pandemic. Rick could do the math, could see the spread like poison in the blood, slow and steady and deadly. “So what’s our plan?” he asked, and Daryl squinted at him, like Rick had slipped into some obscure language.

“ _Our_ plan?” he echoed. “ _We_ ain’t got a plan. I’m gettin’ that spirit outta your house an’ you’re going back home.”

Rick had left his handcuffs in his house- his gun too, his badge, his cell phone, everything he hadn’t had on him in the second the spirit attacked- but what he lacked in effects, he more than made up for in sheer force of will alone, and he already knew Daryl tended to bend with the wind instead of standing against it. He pulled himself upright, planted his feet firmly, stared the hunter down, forcing Daryl to stand against the hurricane that was Rick Grimes or turn and roll along with it.

“I’m not playin’ that game anymore, Daryl,” he said calmly, softly, and Daryl flinched at his tone. “I’m done with that. Whatever you’re planning, I’m with you. Or I arrest you, and you spend the week in jail, and I’ll deal with it myself.”

Daryl looked up at him, stealing glances through the hair hanging in his face, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he wanted to run but had no idea where was safe. “You’ll get yourself killed,” he predicted.

Rick nodded serenely, accepting his fate, silently begging Daryl not to call his bluff, because he was fairly sure he wasn’t bluffing. He would sooner throw himself into the jaws of a werewolf than sacrifice Daryl to one, he realized abruptly, and that knowledge settled warm and heavy in his bones. He would die for Daryl Dixon, and that- that was a problem. That wasn’t lust and a deprived libido kicking into overdrive, that was something else entirely.

Finally Daryl yielded, as Rick had hoped he would- gambled his life on it- ducking away and growling in irritation, angry in his surrender. “Fine,” he said. “But I ain’t got time to hold your hand on this one. You do what I say, when I say, and don’t ask questions or argue.”

Rick bowed his head in acceptance, fully intending to argue the point later, should the circumstances allow, but also nowhere near stupid enough to challenge the lead of the guy who actually knew what he was doing. “So, the plan?” he prompted.

Daryl’s left hand came up to his mouth, the cuticle of his thumb gnawed on- there was blood in his nail bed already, and Rick wondered if it was nerves or stress or just another manifestation of his oral fixation. Then he pulled his hand away. “Can you get access to hospital records?” he asked.

“Depends,” Rick said. “What’m I lookin’ for?”

“Young white guy, came in today with his left hand pretty beat up,” Daryl said. “Looks like he got it caught in a door.”

It wasn’t a small hospital- it served the entire county, after all- but there would likely be only a few that met those criteria. Rick could manage it, if he pressed just right, if he played it like it was connected to a case-

And like that, it snapped into place. “Glenn,” he said, understanding dawning, and Daryl nodded.

“Yeah, he did some damage of his own,” he said.

“Was he-?” Rick began, then cut himself off- he didn’t want to know the answer, but he couldn’t let it lie. “Did he get bit?”

“Nah,” Daryl said, and Rick relaxed again. “Got himself scratched up pretty good, but it didn’t bite him.” He waited a moment longer, and Rick knew what he was waiting for- but Rick couldn’t ask, didn’t want to know what Daryl would have done if Glenn had been bit. He already knew the answer, and hearing it would only make him needlessly angry.

“I need my uniform,” he said, scraping his hand over his eyes- he was tired, the day had sucked even before the spirit attacked him, and he hadn’t been sleeping well for over a week now. Nice to finally know why, even if the method of finding out could’ve been better. “My gun, my phone-” he laughed a little and shook his head. “I need my house back,” he said wryly. He needed to know what they were doing about Shane, but he couldn’t put that name to the thing that had attacked him- not now, maybe not ever. Easier to distance himself from it, think of it in Daryl’s terms- the spirit, not who, but what.

Daryl shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ll go tomorrow, get your stuff,” he said. “Easier in the day, spirits are less active. I’ll cover you.” He said it lightly, carelessly, a promise he has kept before, and Rick thought again of Merle. “We ain’t got time for ghost shit right now,” Daryl continued, and Rick looked at him again. “It’s not dangerous if we stay out of the house. We’ll deal with it after the full moon. You can crash here ‘til then.”

He threw around that _we_ word rather lightly for a man who had to be all but press-ganged into accepting Rick’s help. Rick sighed and dropped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, sagging back into it until he nearly slid right out of it, boneless with exhaustion. He’d have to call Lori tomorrow, ask her to come pick up the kids- he wasn’t having them in the middle of this, and getting Carl away was the only way to keep him out of it. He’d have to talk to Glenn, make sure the kid was all right and not scared out of his wits- he was going to have to deal with the hospital too, and that was never fun-

“Go to bed,” Daryl said suddenly, starting Rick out of the half-doze he’d fallen into. He sat up, rubbing his hand over his eyes, opened his mouth to argue but yawned instead- the adrenalin from the attack, from the argument with Carl and the standoff with Daryl, was worn away, leaving him wearier than ever, and he was no good to anyone like this. 

“Where?” he asked blurrily, expecting to be told the couch, of course.

“Upstairs, second door on the left,” Daryl replied absently, fiddling with a knob on the scanner. “Clean sheets in the closet if you want ‘em.”

“Clean- your room,” Rick said, raising his brows. “You’re offering me your bed?” There was no way to say that without it coming out sounding like a line straight from a porno, and he thought Daryl didn’t even realize the full implication, most of his focus on the scanner. “Where’re you gonna sleep?”

For a moment, Rick could only remember that moment in the kitchen, Daryl’s body a solid wall of muscle beneath his, Daryl’s arms wrapped around him- he couldn’t stop himself imagining being in bed with that, a graceless tangle of limbs, a sea of skin and patchwork scars, and he was really far too tired to control where that train of thought led him. He stood up hurriedly, shoving his chair back and shying away, moving for the doorway before Daryl could look up at him and maybe notice why Rick was all the sudden in such a hurry to get out of there.

Daryl did look at him, but it was a quick, strange look, like he thought Rick was trying to make a joke that he just didn’t understand. Then he turned back to his scanner, and right, he wasn’t sleeping anywhere tonight. Rick wanted to say _don’t do anything without me_ \- but he couldn’t, not in the shape he was in. He left the kitchen without another word, figuring he’d done enough damage to Daryl’s opinion of him for one night.

Carl and Judith were in the guest room, the door firmly and pointedly shut. Rick rested his hand on the door and sighed, then turned and moved away- his son might hate him, but he would live to see the end of this, and that was Rick’s primary goal- get everyone he cared about out of this mess alive, and that included Daryl.

He grabbed two sheets out of the linen closet in the hallway, then headed into Daryl’s bedroom. It matched the rest of the house in its impersonal décor, the only sign of life here the unmade bed and the piles of laundry on the floor. Rick stripped the sheets off the bed and added them to the dirty pile by the door- he did not bury his face in it and inhale Daryl’s scent, much as he wanted to- and carelessly tucked one of the sheets down onto the mattress, not caring when two of the corners pulled up. He shucked his jeans and his shirt and wrapped the other sheet around himself, then collapsed across the bed and sprawled out instantly, claiming as much of the space as he could.

His kids were safe and close, and there was an armed hunter downstairs that anything that wanted at Rick or his family would have to go through first, and Rick had never felt this secure, this comfortable, since the last time he’d slept with Lori at his side.

He was asleep within seconds.


	11. partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have some good news: I am way ahead on this monster. As a result, there will be weekly updates for a while- on Tuesdays, because why the hell not- but that also means this fic is long. Seriously, it's at eighty thousand words and it is not done yet, so if you were hoping for something shorter, um, sorry. It's looking to check in at over a hundred thousand before it's done. (to provide some perspective, _Prisoner of Azkaban_ is 107k. I have written a friggin' book here.)

_June 18th, 10.24 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

He did get some sleep that night, crashed on the couch because Rick was in his bed- about three hours’ worth, between dawn and Carl standing close-but-not-too-close and bitching at him about the lack of age appropriate food in the house at eight. He survived a brief run to the grocery store- oatmeal and Froot Loops- although the vibration from his motorcycle’s engine drove spikes of exhausted agony up his spine to lodge in the base of his skull, planting roots of pain into his temples and the back of his eyes and gathering force for what promised to be one hell of a headache.

He gave Carl his Froot Loops, tossed back four aspirin, and went back to sleep.

By ten o’clock, Daryl was up again and feeling surprisingly human. He wore sunglasses to protect his eyes from the light and brewed decaf so as to not flood his system with caffeine, and the headache was barely a low, annoying buzz of pain in his temples. He sat at the kitchen table with his bowl of Froot Loops and his coffee, skimming the local news on his phone and ignoring Carl, who was sitting in the living room and loudly sulking in silence as only teenagers could.

“You’re late for work,” the kid said suddenly, and Daryl- who had blown off work for two days and was most likely so very fired, so there was no way Carl was talking to him- looked up. Rick was walking through the living room, his fingers fumbling clumsily while doing up the buttons of his shirt, his hair a spectacular mess of rioting curls. He looked blankly at Carl for a moment, then grunted in sudden realization as the meaning of the words filtered in. He dug his hands uselessly into his pockets, turning up nothing but his wallet, then looked around and zeroed in on Daryl.

“I need your phone,” he said as he strode over, not asking but ordering, brusque and pushy with sleep, still worn down to the bone. Hunting screwed with the sleep schedule something awful; Daryl, at least, had a job with night hours and was still used to a hunter’s schedule, but Rick was going to have to be good from now until six tomorrow morning, and from there operating on only a few handful of hours of sleep snatched here and there.

Daryl handed his phone over, then took his bowl to the sink and dumped it out, watching the milk-logged cereal ooze out to glop in the sink and then just sit there. He poked at it with his spoon once or twice, just to be sure it wasn’t about to come alive and do whatever it was rainbow slime monsters did like eat Manhattan, then tossed his bowl down and dug into a nearby drawer.

“Here,” he said, slapping a legal pad and pencil down on the table near Rick. “Write down what you need from your place, an’ exactly where it is. I’ll be back in a minute.” He headed out, past the solid sphere of frosty silence emanating from his extremely pissed-off young guest in the living room, and out the back door.

The cellar doors were stilled cleared off from last time he was down there, the trick lock in the padlock easy and familiar. Daryl left one of the doors open as he headed down, pushing his sunglasses up over his eyes and on top of his head for the moment, squinting into the dusty darkness of the cellar. His old stuff was still spread out messily over the floor from where he’d dumped it, and he pushed it all back into the bag and zipped it shut, slinging it over his shoulder as he stood up and looked around again. There was still nothing more useful than large bags of road salt- admittedly hard to come by in Georgia, land of the mild winter- and he debating grabbing one before deciding it was too large and heavy to be dealing with.

He headed back upstairs, pushing his sunglasses back down and kicking the cellar doors shut behind him, pausing only to relock them, then started to go inside and ran smack into an argument.

“-don’t _want_ to go back to Atlanta,” Carl was saying loudly, the baby crying in counterpoint, no doubt upset by the yelling. “I wanna stay here, I wanna help. I can help,” he insisted, torn between the logical arguments of adults and the outrage at unfairness of children.

Rick answered, his voice low and steely, too low for Daryl to make out over the baby, and Daryl backed up, let the door swing shut again as he retreated into the obnoxiously sunny privacy of his back yard. He settled down on the porch step to wait. A minute later the back door slammed open, then shut again, and Carl was storming past him. He ran into the yard and stopped, turning viciously in place, one hand coming up to curl in a fist in his dark hair in sheer aggravated frustration.

“It’s not _fair_!” he yelled, somehow more of a child with Daryl than he was with his own father. “I don’t want to go back to Atlanta, I hate it there, and I can help you guys!”

Threat of physical danger wasn’t going to do it- he _knew_ it was dangerous, he’d seen it- so Daryl went with honesty. He shrugged one shoulder and looked away, unable to help. “I know,” he said simply, and Carl went silent and still, then approached him at a hurry.

“Tell him that,” he ordered, and Daryl shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You wanna help? Do what he says. Take care of yourself, an’ your sister, an’ stay safe. Otherwise he’s gonna be too busy worryin’ over you to worry about himself, and he’ll get himself killed.” And Daryl too, most likely, but that wasn’t the point here.

Carl was silent for a moment, trying to come up with a new angle of attack to compensate for the new argument. “I can take care of myself,” he said stubbornly, finally, and Daryl snorted.

“Like hell you can,” he countered lazily. “ _I_ can’t hardly do that, an’ I was raised for this shit.”

Carl made an aggravated noise and paced away again. “This is bullshit,” he said finally, and Daryl rolled up to his feet, startling the kid into skittered sideways a few steps.

“Yeah, it is,” the hunter said. “That’s my job- pain and bullshit, and people dying. That’s why you’re goin’ to Atlanta.”

Carl was still looking to fight, but Daryl was done with it. He picked up his bag and headed inside instead, to where Rick was in the living room, his daughter in his arms and his face against her hair. Daryl could ask, could press, would probably even get some emotional honesty in return- but he wasn’t the _let’s talk about it_ sort, was the exact opposite of that, and the idea of emotional show-and-tell quite frankly terrified him.

“I cashed in a sick day,” Rick said. “Told ‘em we found mold in the basement, and I was staying at a friend’s house and overslept.” His lips twisted wryly a little as he glanced up at Daryl- probably considering the inappropriateness of the term ‘friend’ as it applied to him. “I’ll need to go in to call the hospital, make it more official. We ought to get movin’.” He freed up one hand and turned, holding the legal pad out to Daryl, who took it and glanced down at the scrawled lines on the page.

“We ain’t takin’ her,” he said, nodding towards the baby, and Rick snorted.

“No, Carl’ll take her,” he replied, hoisting her up a little more, her small body draped against his chest. “He’s a good kid.”

A good kid, if a bit pissed. Daryl dropped his bag on the couch and crouched down to open it and start digging through it again. Two handguns- iron bullets, but bullets left holes in walls that were hard to explain- a machete, a small iron knife- that he took out and considered for a moment before setting it aside- a water bottle full of holy water, a shotgun, matches, a steel thermos full of lighter fluid because the plastic bottles kept getting holes popped in them and leaking everywhere, and an endless number of salt and iron rounds rolling around in the bottom of the bag. He skipped over to the side pockets- fake FBI badges, best not to let Rick see those- he’d sold all their fake credit cards in Mississippi to pay for gas- then, finally, he found what he was looking for, a small gadget with a meter on it. He twisted around on the spot to show Rick, then stopped.

He’d been aware of the movement behind him, of course, knew Rick was moving around in senseless, aimless patterns. He was rocking the baby, as it turned out, holding her close and swaying with her, his eyes closed and his expression vulnerable, open, a simple quiet joy at holding his daughter in his arms. He moved like he was dancing, some slow romantic dance that was nothing but a shuffle of feet, and Daryl could easily imagine a woman dancing with him, wearing a long dress that clung to her curves, her soft body pressed tight against Rick’s- he was a handsome man, Daryl had always acknowledged that, and he deserved a beautiful woman to compliment him, to complete him.

It tied a bitter knot of longing and jealousy in Daryl’s throat, because that wasn’t his life, could never be his life, and- as Carl had so eloquently said- it just wasn’t fair.

He pushed himself up, movements harsh and fast, and shattered the spell, Rick’s eyes snapping open as he instinctively turned away from Daryl, shielding the baby with his own body. He relaxed when he realized it was just Daryl, who kept his head ducked, his hair in his face.

“Here,” he said, shoving the meter at Rick, forcing him to scramble to grab it and keep his hold on the baby. He turned away and zipped the bag up, tossing it out of the way behind the couch. “ ‘M gettin’ some stuff from the garage,” he said. “Meet you outside.”

Rick started to say something, maybe in protest, but Daryl was gone before he could, heading down the stairs to the garage and leaving Rick standing there wondering what he’d done to deserve that.

\-----

Whatever Daryl had said to Carl had had an impact- not enough of one, because the boy was still sulking, but when Rick went out to the backyard to give Judith to Carl, his son actually acknowledged him, glancing up as he took the little girl and telling Rick to be careful as he walked away. It was something of a relief, as Rick was apparently surrounded by people determined to find reasons to be mad at him, or create them if they couldn’t find them, and now it was Daryl’s turn.

He circled around to the front of the house and waited there, briefly scanning his list- he understood the reasoning behind writing it, it allowed him to collect his thoughts and establish clear goals, give him more chances to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything- then looked at the meter. He switched it on and it crackled to life, chattering to itself like a Geiger counter, and for a moment Rick was very worried.

“ ‘S an EMF meter,” Daryl said suddenly, and Rick looked up at him as he approached. His crossbow was absent, but he was carrying a wrench in one hand and an empty duffel bag in the other. He jerked his chin at the meter in Rick’s hands. “Electromagnetic frequency. Spirits give off EMF. If it’s comin’ at us, that’ll pick it up first.”

Rick looked at the meter again, then at the wrench. “And that?” he asked.

“Iron,” Daryl said as he turned and started walking towards Rick’s house. “Dispels ‘em, for a little while, at least. Salt, too. They can’t cross salt lines.”

Iron and salt, Rick thought as he followed, filing all that away. It seemed almost familiar, like it was triggering some deeper memory- he thought he remembered something, maybe from his Sunday school days. They were purifiers- iron in a metaphorical sense, salt in a scientific sense- which made the spirit something impure.

It made him sick to think of it, to think of _Shane_ in those terms, and for a moment he wanted to deny it, deny it all. Shane was dead, and that was mostly Rick’s own fault- but this wasn’t like Shane, to want to hurt anyone, let alone Rick, merely for the pleasure of hurting them. This wasn’t possible, he wanted to say- he wanted to stop and say it was all impossible, can they please return to reality now- he figured he was due a freakout over everything that had happened, everything he had heard and seen in the last twelve hours.

But then he looked up and saw he was at his own front door, and Daryl was standing there, watching Rick expectantly, waiting patiently for his signal- he remembered a wicked scar across Daryl’s belly, the way he had stood between Rick and the spirit last night- and he knew he couldn’t do that. Daryl didn’t deserve that crap, partners didn’t pull that shit on each other.

_Partners_ , he thought- and they were, they really were, at least until the full moon- it had been so long since he’d last called someone his partner and meant it. It felt like coming home again.

He looked Daryl in the eye and nodded once, and Daryl pushed the door open and stepped into the house beyond. Rick followed, and it was silent, still- expectant. He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe normally, held up the EMF meter and watched the needle as it stayed firmly fixed on the zero.

Rick glanced at Daryl expectantly, and the hunter shrugged and gestured deeper into the house, indicating for Rick to go on.

The first stop was Rick’s room, up the stairs and down the hallway. He went straight to the nightstand and reached under it, flipping the catch that opened the drawer, and pulled out his gun. The catch had successfully kept out an inquisitive toddler and a naughty six-year-old, and if Carl was smart enough to figure it out now, he was also smart enough to know better than to play with a gun. Then he went over and grabbed his uniform, stuffing it into the duffel bag but leaving the belt out. That, he wrapped around his waist, buckling it into place and sliding his gun into the holster hanging low on his right hip.

There was a noise from behind him, and he turned to see Daryl standing in the doorway, staring with a thoughtful expression at the gun. After a moment, he looked up, meeting Rick’s gaze. “You got any silver in the house?” he asked.

“No,” Rick said, busying himself with grabbing clothes and stuffing them in the bag, then hesitated. “Wait, yeah, couple pieces of silverware in one of the kitchen drawers. Lori’s folks gave us a full set as a wedding present, and a few pieces got mixed in with my stuff.” He glanced at Daryl, almost expectant. “She wants ‘em back,” he added, and was perversely pleased when Daryl snorted.

“She ain’t gettin’ ‘em,” he said, and nodded towards the EMF meter Rick had left sitting on the bed. “That goes off, you yell, but we should be good. Blew all its energy last night, it ain’t got anythin’ to come at us with.”

Rick nodded and turned back to his haphazard packing, keeping one eye on the EMF meter. When he felt he had enough clothes to last him at least a few days, he repeated the process in Carl’s room, then Judith’s. Cell phone, both his and Carl’s, chargers, car keys, Judith’s food- that led him to the kitchen, where Daryl had gathered up the silverware and even pulled his arrow out of the wall, where he’d left it last night.

“We done?” Daryl asked, and Rick nodded. He was itchy and antsy, expectation tying a tight, anxious knot in his gut- he was waiting for something to happen, despite Daryl’s reassurances that nothing would. He headed for the front door, nerves jangling and skin itching like he could feel something watching him- he was practically running when he made it out the door, Daryl strolling along after him eventually. The hunter closed the door behind him, wedging it shut as best he could, and followed Rick down the porch stairs, loose-limbed and utterly unconcerned, and Rick would hate him for his easy carelessness if he wasn't clinging to it to keep himself from spinning right off the deep end.

Rick relaxed once he was out in the heat of day, cloud-muted sunshine bright after the shadows of his house, once he was across the yard and Daryl was beside him and he could finally convince himself that nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen, they were out of there.

“That a .357?” Daryl asked abruptly, gesturing to the gun on Rick’s hip. Rick glanced down, as if to check, then back up at the hunter, who was wearing the same thoughtful expression from a few minutes ago.

“Colt Python,” Rick said with a nod, wondering why it mattered, and Daryl snorted.

“Revolvers are slow,” he said, like Rick didn’t know that, like Rick hadn’t logged hundreds of hours on the gun range. He’d been scarily fast in his Atlanta days, certainly fast enough to beat Shane at a quickdraw match, and from there it didn’t matter how many more bullets the other guy had, so long as Rick fired first and made it count.

“And crossbows ain’t?” he asked. Something told him Daryl subscribed to the same philosophy as he did- be the first to shoot, and have good enough aim to not need to reload.

Daryl grunted and shrugged, looking away. “ ‘M gonna head down to Atlanta today,” he said. “Got somethin’ I need to pick up.”

Rick checked his phone- smart phones had shit battery life, and his hadn’t lasted without its nightly recharge. “We need to trade numbers,” he said. They had to keep in touch, especially considering the time-sensitive nature of the creature they were hunting. They were two or three days out from the solstice, so the days were long and dusk lingered- they’d gotten lucky in that regard- but Rick didn’t know the rules for werewolves, how dark it had to be before they could shift. Atlanta was only an hour’s drive, but he didn’t know how long Daryl would be in the city, what he needed there.

He was going to have to call Lori, come up with some excuse better than the mold story- she’d want an all-clear from a certified inspector before she let her kids back into any house with mold- and make sure she got here and was gone before sunset.

They went their separate ways once in Daryl’s house, Daryl dragging the bag he’d brought in earlier out from behind the couch and disappearing upstairs with it, Rick hunting down an outlet and plugging in his phone to charge, then digging through the duffel bag for his uniform. He was going to tank his previously spotless attendance record with work over the next few days, he suspected, and found he couldn’t care less. Some things couldn’t wait for his convenience.

There were footsteps on the stairs and Rick looked up- Daryl, coming down, wearing a leather jacket and riding boots. He paused in the entryway, awkwardly, and Rick hesitated as well, not sure what the proper protocol was here. After a moment, he nodded once in farewell, and was out the door before Rick could respond in kind.

Rick checked his phone, looked at the missed calls and messages and ignored them all, instead focusing on inputting the number Daryl had given him, adding the hunter to his contacts. Then he went back to the duffel bag and started digging around in it for his uniform.

He had his assignments, time to start earning his keep.

\-----

Daryl was a few miles outside of Atlanta when he felt his phone vibrate in the pocket of his shirt, buzzing over his heart like an angry wasp. He was on the interstate and going nearly eighty-five, so he let it ring through and got off at the next exit, stopping in the first available parking lot and pulling his helmet off with one hand while he unzipped his jacket with the other.

He redialed without looking- he knew who it had to be, no one called him, no one cared enough to bother with him. “Yeah,” he said, as soon as the line picked up.

“They’re not happy about it, but they’re talkin’ to me,” Rick said without preamble, just as interested in small talk as Daryl was. He wasn’t happy about something, his voice tight and his words clipped, and Daryl had no interest in trying to figure out what Rick’s damage was this time. The hunting world was a generally very unhappy place, and if Rick wanted in on it, he’d just have to get used to being pissed off and unable to do anything about it.

“And?” he prompted.

“Nothin’,” Rick said. “No bites, no attacks, no deaths- nothing. And no sign of anybody with a busted-up hand, either.”

“What the hell,” Daryl muttered. This… wasn’t tracking. 

“There was a lot of reports of animal deaths last night,” Rick continued. “Couple dogs, some cats, a few coons and a skunk, all tore up pretty bad, all over on Ridgeview Road.”

Ridgeview sounded familiar, and it took a moment for Daryl to place it- Glenn Rhee, he who had kicked a werewolf’s ass, lived on Ridgeview. “Shit,” he said succinctly. “His family okay?”

“They’re fine,” Rick said, his voice gone cool, and yeah, he was pissed. “Glenn’s out of town, though. Is this thing hunting him?”

“Seems like it,” Daryl muttered. He lowered his phone, folded his arms over the handlebars and leaned forward, chewing at his lower lip. This wolf was all over the map, behavior-wise- it had been a mature werewolf that had killed Ed and the cow last month- but this, attacking stray animals on the street and fixating on one person, that was the actions of a new werewolf, one still adjusting to its abilities. Which meant…

Son of a _bitch_.

He brought the phone back up to his ear. “You still on the phone with the hospital?” he asked.

“No,” Rick said, caught off-guard by the question. “But I can call ‘em back. What am I askin’ for this time?”

“Same thing, bite wounds,” Daryl said. “From a large dog, maybe- the victim won’t remember the attack.”

“I just-” Rick began, and Daryl spoke over him.

“For the week of May 25th,” he finished, and Rick went silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, bone-deep and profoundly exhausted- quick enough to put the pieces together, just lacking the experience to be able to find them on his own.

“You think someone got bit last month,” he said. “There’re two werewolves, not one.”

“ ‘S what they do,” Daryl said. “Spread the infection.” He lowered his phone again with another curse.

Ed had died on the full moon night, the night when even the most experienced werewolves had the least amount of control over their monstrous halves. There had been nothing before that, though- no deaths, no attacks, just one dead cow so the thing wouldn’t starve. In control, experienced- the new wolf was a decoy, a smokescreen, and it was working and Daryl had to let it- he couldn’t focus on finding the older wolf, not with the new one running around like a loose cannon.

Rick was waiting for him again, silent and patient, clearly content to let the experienced hunter reason it all out. Daryl listened to the silence of the line for a moment, taking comfort in the simple fact that there was someone else on the other end of it- he wasn’t going this alone, he had support, he had someone there for him.

“The younger wolf’s fixated on Glenn ‘cause its human half is fixated on him,” he said, and Rick picked it up fast- he was damn good, Daryl had no qualms about giving him props for that.

“It’s a human motive,” he said, understanding dawning. “Someone’s got a reason for wantin’ Glenn dead.”

“An’ the wolf’s actin’ on it,” Daryl finished. “You said in the hospital that you were his friend?”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “I can ask his grandmother for his number, talk to him.”

“That one’ll be easy to find,” Daryl said. “The older one’s gonna be a bitch.” He’d had werewolves give him the slip twice before- once the full moon was past, there was just no way to pick them out of the crowd, no way to know them for what they were. But something told him this one wasn’t hauling ass out of town just yet. It was here for something, something in specific, and Daryl wouldn’t even have known about it if Ed Peletier hadn’t taken a wrong turn and put himself in the path of a hungry monster.

The older werewolf was still here, lying low, waiting. It wasn’t done here yet.

The silverware he’d taken from Rick’s house suddenly felt heavy in his pocket, warm with intent, understanding its purpose. Daryl gave a vague goodbye and hung up and tucked his phone into his pocket, suddenly anxious to be on the road again, to be _doing something_ again. He shouldn’t have brought Grimes into this, should’ve kept him out, taken care of that stupid fucking spirit in his garage and sent him back home, should’ve gotten him clear when he still could- but he couldn’t now, he needed the man too much, and there was a none-too-small part of Daryl that was convinced he was going to get Rick killed. He’d saved the man from a spirit just to throw him to the wolves, literally.

He closed his eyes and remembered that moment earlier, Rick holding his daughter in Daryl’s living room, nothing in his world but her. Imagined her growing up without the father that loved her so much. He couldn’t live with another death weighing on his soul, another person’s blood on his hands, especially not this person’s.

He didn’t have time for this. He pulled his helmet back on and started the bike’s engine up and pulled out of the parking lot, keen to get moving. He had shit to do.


	12. bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookee here, I'm actually updating on time. It's actually much easier for me to stick to a well-defined schedule than it is for me to just wing it, so I probably should've done this from the start. Oh well.
> 
> The boys are working together now- but there's still a ways to go in this story yet. In case you didn't read the notes on the last chapter, this fic is _one hundred thousand words_ long, and that is no longer an estimate.

_June 18th, 12.19 p.m.  
Atlanta_

The lettering in the hardware store window proclaimed the store to be ‘family owned since 1923’; Daryl stared at it for a moment, then swung the door opened and went in. Owned, sure, but the place sure as hell wasn’t run by family, not anymore.

There was an assistance counter at the back of the store where customers could go and ask dumbass questions that the clerks would mock them for later, and a man behind the counter, a Latino with a lanyard that identified him as the manager. He was helping a young couple but very obviously stopped mid-word when he glanced up and saw Daryl lingering awkwardly in the aisle. For a moment he stared, then he turned back to the couple like nothing had happened, and Daryl turned and headed back outside, circling around to the back of the store.

He wasn’t surprised in the least to see the other man had beaten him out there, and was leaning back against the brick wall, cigarette in hand.

“Well, well,” he said flatly. “Daryl Dixon. Lookit you.” He did exactly that, swept his gaze up and down Daryl’s body with a sort of appreciative slowness, and quirked a smile as he held out the cigarette.

“You still smoke menthols?” Daryl asked as he approached, and when the man shrugged, he snorted. “Pussy,” he said, smacking the proffered hand away and digging his own cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

Caesar Martinez was, among many other things, an old friend, old enough that all the other things he had been over the years was forgiven and forgotten, at least between him and Daryl. Merle would sooner remove his eyeteeth with a wrench than deal with Martinez again, but that was Merle. Contrary to popular belief, Daryl was an entity separate from his brother.

“Heard about Merle,” Martinez said. “Always figured you’d show up here sooner or later, I just didn’t think it’d take this long.”

“I got out,” Daryl said, and the other man snorted, inhaling smoke from his wuss cigarette.

“No one gets out,” he said simply, and Daryl looked away. He was here, so clearly he hadn’t managed to get out either, much as he might have tried. He snorted and shook his head and dug the bundle out of his pocket, a butter knife and a small soup spoon wrapped in a dish cloth.

“I got werewolves,” he said, and Martinez winced in sympathy. He wasn’t a hunter, just a supplier- silver bullets, iron knives, a Japanese sword blessed by a Shinto priest, water from snowmelt in the Alps- you name it, he could get his hands on it, most times within a week or no charge. Even he knew werewolves were bad news, though.

“Shit,” he muttered, taking the silverware and turning them over in his hands, testing their integrity, studying their shine. “You still with the Stryker?” he asked.

“Need bullets for a .357 Colt Python,” Daryl said, and Martinez blinked and looked up at him, a wicked smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s a lot of gun, little boy,” he said, all condescending jackass, because that was how they communicated best. “You sure you can handle that?”

“Fuck you,” Daryl replied easily. “Ain’t for me.”

Martinez looked like he ached to say something else, something more- maybe start asking questions Daryl had no interest in answering- but he was all too aware of the time crunch here- he glanced up over Daryl’s head, to the moon hanging fat and bloated above the trees on the horizon, and kept it to himself.

“Those are big bullets,” he said instead. “I can give you two, maybe three if you’re lucky. And they won’t be ready by tonight. When’s it full?”

Daryl didn’t have to stop and think about it, didn’t have to pause to remember- hunters knew the moon cycle, it was carved as deep into their bones as it was in a werewolf’s, and he was slipping back into his old life with far more ease than he had left it. “Twenty-third,” he said. “This Sunday.”

Martinez shook his head and looked back down at the silver in his hand. “I recommend you bench your friend for tonight,” he said. “Better pissed than werewolf chow.”

Daryl looked down at the silverware and bit at his lower lip, thinking. No bullets until tomorrow, which meant that for tonight, Rick would be going up against a werewolf as good as unarmed. He probably wasn’t going to sit it out if Daryl politely asked, so he’d have to take more extreme measures- but that was a problem for later, when Daryl knew the situation and the circumstances. Whatever the case was, he couldn’t let Rick go near that wolf.

“I ain’t got the cash to cover it now,” Daryl began, shifting gears off of his partner before more questions could be asked, but Martinez snorted and waved him off.

“You’re good for it,” he said. “Give me your address, I’ll drop them off tomorrow.”

Daryl recited his address, and tucked the cigarette he’d never bothered to light away again. He was halfway around the building when Martinez called after him.

“Hey, you take care of yourself,” he ordered, and when Daryl looked back, the man was gone, disappeared inside- but at least it was good to know Daryl still had a few friends left in this world.

\-----

_June 18th, 1.34 p.m.  
The Greene house_

The Greene family farmhouse was a classic early-nineteenth century spread, large, airy rooms with broad open doorways, the wood floor creaky underneath, echoing with the footsteps of people two hundred years dead. There was a mudroom and a tea room and slave’s quarters near the rear of the house, tastefully reintegrated into the main building by some ancestor or another who had finally acknowledged that the South had lost that one.

It was a house big enough to swallow Rick’s own house, and a good portion of Daryl’s- and yet it felt small and claustrophobic, Rick sitting at the dining room table with Glenn and Maggie sitting opposite him, a very careful three-foot distance between them, and Hershel looming over them both.

Finally, after a long few moments of picking at the tablecloth in silence, Glenn broke the stalemate. “Daryl said to get out of town,” he told the table earnestly. “It was the only place I could think of.”

“I told him to come here,” Maggie added immediately, bold and daring where Glenn was cowering. “It was my idea.” She looked over her shoulder, up at her father. “We need to help him, Daddy,” she said plaintively, and if anything, Hershel’s face only darkened at that, a storm in his eyes.

“I don’t want you getting involved in this, Maggie,” he said, eternal patience, and Maggie’s eyes flashed with fire.

“I’m twenty-three, Dad,” she said. “I don’t need you making my decisions for me.”

Not only was Rick not interested in landing himself in the middle of a family argument, he didn’t have time to- seven hours until sunset, and Lori had called ten minutes ago, saying she was on her way, and the very last thing he needed was for her to figure out exactly where Rick was staying. He’d told her he was being overwhelmed by work at the moment- and given everything that was going on, it wasn’t even that much of a lie- and she needed to take the kids for a while, and she’d agreed readily. But if she got there before he did, and tried to go into his house…

“I only need to ask Glenn a few questions,” he said, cutting in easily, and the Greenes looked at him.

“Is it about the werewolf?” Maggie asked, bright and chipper and intended for maximum paternal irritation, and it worked beautifully. Rick closed his eyes and rubbed at his brow, then dropped his chin in his hand and slumped a little in the chair, elbow on the table and spine curved- his mother would smack him if she saw him, she’d raised him better than that- as the cold war started anew.

Then, suddenly, Glenn stood up, slapping his hands down on the table. “We’ll just go talk outside,” he said, calm and cool and in control, and Rick smiled slightly at the sudden transformation, because now he was looking at the young man who’d gone up against a werewolf and lived to tell the tale, who’d impressed a professional hunter. He stood up as well, slipping quickly around the table to catch Glenn by the elbow when he staggered on his bad leg for a second, then pulled away just as quickly once Glenn had his balance back. He followed after the younger man, pausing long enough to look back at Maggie- without Glenn there, her bravado had faltered, her hands twisting together and her lower lip caught between her teeth, and Rick offered her a reassuring smile before he turned and followed Glenn out.

Once outside, Rick moved forward until he was leaning against the porch railing, waiting until the door clicked shut behind him and a few good moments afterwards before he turned to Glenn. “You moved in with her?” he asked, unable to help himself, and Glenn flinched a little and offered him a wavery, guilty grin.

“Well, Daryl told me to get out of town,” he said, giving Rick a fast, searching glance at the mention of the hunter. “And when I called Maggie to tell her, and she knew I was lying, and I couldn’t think of what else to tell her, so I just kind of… told her the whole thing.” Rick closed his eyes and chuckled and looked away, helpless in the face of young love. “She already knew about… this stuff,” Glenn added, cutting himself off and staring with wide-eyed suspicion at Rick.

“ ‘M not surprised,” Rick said mildly, and he found that he actually wasn’t.

“What do you know about this?” Glenn added, warily, trying to be cagy- it was probably too late for that, given Maggie’s comment about the werewolf, but last Glenn had checked, Rick knew nothing of what was truly going on here. He’d only become aware of the supernatural element involved after another supernatural element tried to kill him, only just last night, for all that it already felt like years ago.

“I know about the werewolf,” Rick said. “I know Daryl’s huntin’ it. We’re workin’ it together now.”

“Well, I’m glad Daryl’s got help now,” Glenn said after a moment, looking away out over the land around them. The air was quiet, dry and heavy with the gathering heat of summer, the sky so deep and rich a blue it almost hurt the eyes to look at it. “I never thought,” he began, then glanced at Rick. “I didn’t want to be a part of this,” he said. “I never wanted to know any of those things existed. I was happier not knowing.”

Rick leaned back against the railing and waited him out. He was nothing if not patient.

“But they do exist, and now I know,” Glenn finished. “So tell me what you guys need.”

“Does the name Randall Moore mean anythin’ to you?” Rick asked.

“Um,” Glenn said, frowning thoughtfully. “No, not really- I mean, it sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember where-” He stopped and waited as Rick took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out a bit before handing it over. It was a print-off of a Georgia driver’s license, and Glenn was nodding even before he took it from Rick. “But that’s him,” he said, tapping his finger on the picture on the license. “That’s the guy, that’s the- the werewolf.”

“You sure?” Rick pressed as he took the paper back. Randall was a kid, probably Glenn’s age, pale-faced like a sickly, cossetted child, dark hair and dark eyes and an easy smile. Just a guy, just an average-looking kid with nothing to mark him out from the crowd, save his newfound tendency to grow fangs and claws and eat human hearts.

“Yeah,” Glenn said. “He was a little… _wrong_ ,” he gestured towards his face, “but that’s him.”

“Have you ever seen him before?” Rick asked. Glenn took a hitched half-step forward, leaning his hip on the railing, and Rick turned around so he was facing out into the yard, his back to the house, his elbows braced on the railing and his hands loose. It was, honestly, a gorgeous day, not a cloud in sight, the leaves on the trees green as emeralds and shiny under the bright sunlight, the grass only just starting to crisp up and turn brown with heat and dehydration. Rick closed his eyes and let it soak in, enjoying it- he used to love nighttime, this time of year, but he had a feeling that had been permanently ruined for him.

“Yeah, I think?” Glenn said. “I mean, like I said, his name sounds familiar. But it’s a small town, and I’ve lived here my whole life- I probably know almost everyone in town, at least by sight.” He paused, then looked at Rick again. “Why me?” he asked plaintively. “He’s targeting me, and I never did anything to him. Why’s he after me?”

“He’s got reason to dislike you,” Rick said. “I don’t know what, but he thinks he does. Whatever it is, _he_ wouldn’t hurt you- but he’s angry with you, and the wolf’s acting on it.”

“Great,” Glenn muttered. “So I could’ve, what, cut him off on the highway or something and accidentally set a werewolf on myself?”

Rick shrugged, then nodded, and Glenn groaned.

“You guys are gonna get him, right?” he asked finally, quietly- he knew what he was saying, knew what he was asking Rick to do. “I’m not gonna have to change my name and move to Montana or something, right?”

“We’ll get him,” Rick said, and tried not to think too hard about what that meant. He glanced at his watch- nearly two o’clock, he had to get moving- and pushed off from the railing. “I just came to show you that,” he said, taking the paper back again.

“Yeah,” Glenn said. “Thanks, Rick,” he added, painfully sincere, and Rick nodded and strode away, heading down the porch stairs to his car. He was fumbling with his keys when Glenn called for him again. “Be careful, okay?” he said when Rick looked at him. “You don’t understand, these things, they’re…” He shivered a little, standing safe and sound in the warm sunlight, shivered with memory. “Just take care of each other,” he finished, and Rick nodded.

Glenn stayed on the porch until Rick drove around a bend in the road and trees blocked the view. He rubbed one hand over his chest, traced his fingers over the nail marks dug deep into his flesh- it would probably scar, and was currently a spectacular rainbow of the colors of pain spread in a perfect handprint over his heart, the bruise having set in overnight- and shivered a little himself.

These things, they’re monsters, he thought, and that word had a whole new meaning for him now.

\-----

There was a car parked in front of Rick’s house, engine only just shutting off as Daryl drove past. He pulled into his own driveway and turned to look, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as Lori Grimes climbed out of the car. She was wearing a summer dress, light and pale, intended to show off her legs, and Rick couldn’t seem to stop looking as he approached her, so job well done.

Daryl killed his bike’s engine and pulled his helmet off, dragging a hand through his hair to tame it a little bit and get it out of his eyes. He moved away from the bike, towards his garage, then stopped. Something- some masochistic tendency, some spark of self-hatred that had always burned bright in his soul- made him turn and look, and he met Rick’s gaze instantly. Rick was hugging her, holding her close, and Daryl looked away again, that bitterness from earlier returned a hundred fold. He had never let himself imagine, never let himself even dream- he never let himself _want_ , because he always knew nothing would ever come of it- he wasn’t anything to Rick Grimes, wasn’t worth anything but his hunting skills and knowledge.

For one moment last night, when Rick’s guard was down and his mind blurred from sleep- for one moment, Daryl had almost been convinced there was something there, and he had let himself imagine it- and now he was getting kicked in the teeth for it, just like always. He started walking again, heading for the safety of his garage, where he could kick his own ass in peace.

“Hey, Daryl!” Carl yelled, and Daryl’s head snapped up, and the boy was running to him, ignoring his mother’s yelled command to come back. He didn’t slow down as he approached, and Daryl had a second to brace himself before the boy collided with him, knocking him back a few steps, scrawny arms going tight around him, the kid’s face pressing into his chest.

Daryl looked to Rick again, panicky this time, not knowing what to do and looking for guidance. The bastard merely smiled at him, useless fucker.

Carl pulled away before Daryl could truly freak out, backing off to give him his space, and Daryl stared at him. “Keep him safe, all right?” the boy asked, head down so his hair was hanging in his eyes. “He’s my _dad_ ,” he said plaintively, his voice cracking- and that meant something to him, Daryl knew, that meant everything, that was all he needed to say. Take care of him, he’s my dad.

Daryl’s dad had been a drunk and a jackass, quick with his fists and belts and broken bottles. He’d thrown Daryl to a revenant when he was seven and duct taped his belly shut when the thing nearly gutted him, and he’d left almost as many scars on his son’s body as the things Daryl hunted. Daryl’s dad scared him more than any monster he had ever encountered, even now, twenty years after the man’s death. 

“Course I will,” he said instantly, thinking of Martinez and his own decision to keep Rick away from the wolf, and Carl offered him a wobbly smile before he turned and darted away. Lori caught him by the shoulder when he drew close to her, tugged him away and sent a quick, wary look over her shoulder to Daryl. She turned back to Rick as he followed her to her car, helped her load the baby into the seat in the back- she was talking, but Rick’s face was blank and composed, and Daryl knew he didn’t like what he was hearing and so was choosing not to hear it.

He headed into his garage, stopped in the darkness and listened to the sound of the people outside, voices loud enough to be heard but not understood, words snatched away by the wind. Then there was car doors closing, and an engine, and silence.

“What’d Carl say to you?” Rick asked as he came up the driveway, squinting at Daryl. The hunter shrugged one shoulder, suddenly shy about telling him.

“Said bye,” he said simply. He came to the door, leaned out into the sunlight to look down the street. “She gone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rick said, and sighed, the tension in his frame unwinding. He rubbed at his temples and looked away, and finally said, “We’re going to have to kill this kid, aren’t we?”

Daryl didn’t answer- Rick already knew. “You got a name?” he asked instead, and Rick nodded.

“Got a name, got an address,” he said, taking a paper out of his shirt pocket and handing it to Daryl. “Even got Glenn to confirm.”

Randall Moore, twenty-four. Daryl studied the picture, memorizing the face, then handed the paper back. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “Better for us if we catch him in daylight. He’ll be crashed.” He pushed past Rick, out into the sunlight, and swung his crossbow down over his shoulder and checked it over, one last quick time. He pulled out each silver-tipped arrow, one after the other, checking that all three still had their points- silver was a bitch to work with, a soft metal that didn’t want to keep its shape. As soon as he was done that, he moved off towards the police cruiser parked in Rick’s driveway, then turned back when he realized the cop hadn’t moved. 

Rick was pale, his jaw set firm, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and Daryl realized abruptly that the collision he’d been expecting from the start was finally upon them- Rick’s hero mentality, his save everyone training, clashing with the hunter credo. Randall Moore wasn’t human anymore- he just looked it- but it was enough to cause Rick to balk.

“You’re talkin’ about killin’ an innocent kid,” Rick hissed as Daryl came back over to him.

“Glenn’s an innocent kid,” Daryl corrected. “Randall’s the monster that tried to eat him.”

“He’s a victim here, too,” Rick insisted, and Daryl groaned.

“Yeah,” he snapped. “He is. But he’s dangerous. How many people is your _victim_ gonna have to kill before he ain’t the victim no more?”

There was no answer to that- there was no answer to any of this, that was what really sucked. Werewolves were terrible, not just because of how dangerous they were, but because the people themselves didn’t deserve killing- there was just no way to separate them from the monster that lurked in their very bones.

“If you got bit, would you want someone to put you down?” Rick asked quietly, an important question, and Daryl snorted.

“Hell, yeah,” he said without hesitation. “And I’d thank ‘em while they did it. Fuck, give me a silver knife an’ I’ll do it myself.”

Rick didn’t reply to that, just stared at Daryl, a long thoughtful stare, wheels turning behind his eyes. Finally he moved, starting after Daryl, digging his hand into his pocket for his car keys. He stopped just shy of the car, Daryl already circled around to the passenger side. “An’ me?” he asked, even quieter, and looked up at Daryl.

“You what?” Daryl countered, wary. Rick looked him in the eye, pinned him in place with sheer force of will.

“If I get bit,” he clarified.

“Ain’t happenin’,” Daryl said stiffly.

“You can’t promise that,” Rick began, but Daryl shook his head, stubborn, and looked away.

“It ain’t happenin’, so forget it,” he repeated, then yanked on the car door handle until Rick got the hint and unlocked the car. He opened the door and swung the crossbow down so it was cradled in his lap as he sat, pointedly ignoring Rick as he got in as well.

“Thank you,” Rick said finally, and Daryl looked away and thought of Carl wrapped tight around him- _he’s my dad_ \- and Rick wrapped tight around Lori, and said nothing.

\-----

The apartment building Randall Moore rented out of was small and cramped, stuffed onto the corner of two busy streets. There were no surveillance cameras- Rick had called the landlord when he’d been at the station- so they only needed to worry about witnesses, and he hated himself for even thinking that sentence.

“He goes to UGA,” he said to Daryl as they headed into the building. “He’s a local boy, grew up around here. He works here over the summer.” He didn’t know why he knew this, why he was telling Daryl any of this- giving the monster a human face, maybe. Daryl shrugged and looked away, saying nothing- he’d had nothing to say the entire drive, not since he’d made Rick a promise he could in no way keep. Instead, he busied himself fussing with his arrows- Rick had convinced him to leave the crossbow in the car, as it was early enough that he wouldn’t be needing it- the arrows had been a compromise.

“So what’s the plan here?” he asked finally. 

“We’re goin’ to talk to him, get him out of here,” Rick said. “We still got five hours.” He stopped, blocking the door with his body, turned back to Daryl. “He hasn’t killed anyone yet,” he said. “ ‘Til he does, he’s a victim in my book, an’ we _are not_ killing him.” He looked away, then back at Daryl. “There’s got to be a way to make this work,” he said quietly.

Daryl’s expression was unusually soft- he knew what Rick was going through, what he was struggling with, and he was not unsympathetic. “You can’t control it, Rick,” he said. “It ain’t somethin’ that can be _controlled_ , it’s a fucking ballistic missile- you can aim it, but you can’t stop it, an’ you’re just gonna get yourself killed if you try.”

“If he kills someone, you do what needs to be done,” Rick said firmly. “But since he hasn’t yet, we’re doin’ this my way.”

Daryl said nothing, just dipped his chin in a nod- he could afford to be amenable, Rick thought- it wouldn’t be him dying, nor would it be on him if someone else did. Still, the hunter was willing to unbend a little, to allow a little bit of grey in his otherwise black-and-white morality, to follow Rick’s lead despite his words the other night, and Rick took that as a good sign.

He led the way to the elevator, painfully aware of every single person they passed, wondering if his uniform would make him stand out in their memory, wondering if this was the end of his career, if this was worth it. Then he looked over at Daryl, who had never even had anything even remotely resembling a normal life, and knew it was.

Randall’s apartment was 3C; Rick knocked hard and long, remembering what Daryl had said about Randall crashing. He was about to knock again when the door one down opened and a young woman stepped out, fussing with the bag slung over her shoulders, and nearly walked right into Daryl.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, not noticing or not caring how the hunter recoiled like her touch was poisonous. She paused and looked Rick over, taking in his badge, his uniform, the door he was standing at. “Are you here for Randall?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rick said instantly, stepping forward, maneuvering himself into place between the girl and Daryl, who in turn retreated into the space Rick had just left, an easy one-two-three slide, a social waltz. “Do you know him?” he pressed, trying to keep her attention off the hunter behind him.

“Yeah, kinda,” she said with a shrug and a twist of her lips. “I mean, we’re neighbors. We say hi in the hall and talk about the weather in the laundry room and that’s about it.” She pointed one finger at Rick, a smirk playing at her lips. “Is this about the other day?” she asked.

“Depends,” Rick said. “What happened?”

“Like, two nights ago, he came busting out of his apartment wearing only his underwear,” she said. “Nearly knocked me over. He hasn’t come home since that I’ve seen.”

“He hasn’t,” Rick echoed. “Thank you,” he added, in his long-perfected move-along-now voice, and the girl went, albeit reluctantly. He waited until she was gone before he turned to look at Daryl.

“Night he attacked Glenn,” Daryl said. “Must’ve been starting to shift. She got lucky.”

“Why hasn’t he come home yet?” Rick asked.

“Prob’ly hasn’t realized he ain’t home,” the hunter replied. “All he’s gonna want to do this week is sleep.” He shifted his weight, recapturing Rick’s wandering gaze. “He’ll kill tonight,” he said grimly.

Rick ignored that. “I’m getting the building manager,” he said, and headed off towards the elevator, Daryl remaining behind to stand sentinel at the door.

Twenty minutes later, the building manager, extremely unhappy at having been rousted from Wheel of Fortune, unlocked the door and let it swing open. “There you go, officer,” he said, and when Rick went into the apartment, he tried to follow, flat-out ignoring Daryl on Rick’s heels. Daryl darted in first and pushed the other man back with one broad shoulder, blocking him and pinning him with a dark flat stare, and when the man had retreated far enough, the hunter slammed the door closed in his face. Rick turned away to hide his smile at the display.

The apartment was as small and cramped as the rest of the building- two rooms, a half-bath with a cubicle shower stall, a kitchenette that was just a stove and a sink in the corner of the living room. There was nothing that screamed _werewolf_. The bedroom was slightly more promising, but only slightly- the bed was rumpled, sheets and blankets and pillows all on the floor, and one of the window curtains had been ripped from the rod, but that was it.

Daryl stood at the window, spread out one hand and rested it on the sill. Rick wandered over to him and saw what he was looking at- burrs in the wood, like someone with long sharp nails had grabbed at it.

“Now what?” he asked.

“We go home,” Daryl said, and Rick looked up at him in surprise. “Get some sleep, somethin’ to eat. No way to find him now, he could be anywhere.” He looked up at Rick then, and there was something in his eyes- the hunter come to the fore, Rick realized, cold and dangerous. “But we know where he’s gonna be tonight,” he added.

Tonight. They weren’t going to find Randall, they were going to find the werewolf, haunting Ridgeview Road and hunting for Glenn- and Daryl had already predicted that he’d kill tonight. Rick closed his eyes and sighed.

“Tonight, then,” he said, and prayed they wouldn’t be too late.


	13. moonrise, ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, dear children, this is why I have a weekly update schedule- I have written nothing in a week and a half (well, okay, I wrote like seventy words, then promptly went back and deleted half of them). This week has been hellacious, and it doesn't look to be getting better the next couple of days, so at least I have a nice comfortable buffer.
> 
> Also, if you commented on the last chapter, I am so sorry, I haven't had the time to respond. Honestly, I'm not sure if there's a point, by now.
> 
> One last thing: If anyone can tell me Michonne's last name, I will love you forever.

_June 18th, 9.39 p.m.  
Ridgeview Road, Ashlyn_

The neighborhood off of Ridgeview was a cozy little tangle of streets and houses, small yards and tall old trees, roads crisscrossing in a nightmare pattern. Very few of the yards had fences, which Rick imagined would make werewolf hunting a hell of a lot harder- if the thing was even half as fast as Daryl said, the labyrinth of houses and yards and trees and roads would favor it, and turn hunting it into a deadly game of cat and mouse, with the hunters being the mice.

Rick pulled his cruiser up onto the curb a few hundred feet down from the Rhee house and shifted it into park, then looked over at his companion, who had been stewing in thoughtful silence ever since they’d left the house. “Now what?” he asked.

Daryl didn’t answer for a long few minutes, instead chewing mindlessly on his thumbnail and ducking his head to look out the windows and study the street. “We wait,” he said finally. “Hope it shows here ‘fore it kills someone. Not much else we can do.”

Rick leaned back against the door, watching Daryl instead of the road, waiting patiently for the other man to acknowledge him. He was learning the rules, now that Daryl was being honest with him, had shown all of himself- not the rules of hunting, that would take a lifetime to learn, but the rules that governed the man himself. Daryl wasn’t fond of eye contact, but he only went this far out of his way to avoid it when he was trying to hide something.

Finally, Daryl glanced over at him, questioning, and Rick asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’,” Daryl said, a hair too fast. “I’m huntin’ a werewolf with a newbie,” he added with a snort. “What d’you think’s wrong with me?”

They were back to that, then. Rick turned away with a sigh, wondering why it even surprised him when Daryl so blatantly lied to him when that was all the other man seemed to know. “What about the other one?” he asked, steering them away from that ledge, and Daryl glanced at him again.

“Other one, what? Werewolf?” he clarified, and when Rick nodded, he shrugged. “What ‘bout it?”

“Shouldn’t we be looking for that one, too?” Rick pushed, and Daryl scoffed.

“It ain’t out tonight,” he said. “Won’t be, ‘til tomorrow at the earliest. ‘S older.”

“What’s that mean, _it’s older_?” Rick asked. “It’s still a werewolf, ain’t it? But you talk like they’re different things entirely.”

Daryl shrugged and looked away again. “They are, little bit,” he said. “The younger ones, like Randall, they don’t know what they are. They wake up after the full moon, feelin’ like they been on a week-long bender, an’ they go back to their life.”

“ ‘Til a hunter comes along,” Rick said, his tone carefully bland, nonconfrontational. They’d been over it often enough, there was nothing to be gained by dragging it out again. 

“The older ones, though,” Daryl continued, graciously ignoring that remark, “they’re different. They know what they are. They’re more in control.” He paused, casting about for an appropriate analogy. “Randall ain’t a killer any more than a drunk driver is- he doesn’t want anyone dead, he just ain’t in control. The older ones are killers, an’ the wolf is their weapon.” He spared Rick a quick glance. “This one, it’s here for somethin’. Ed got in its way, so it killed him. ‘Less we can figure out what it wants, we’ll lose it. Ain’t gonna stick around for another month, not with a hunter in town.”

Rick nodded and looked away, turning this new information over in his head. Daryl didn’t seem like he expected to catch the older one, and from the way he was describing it, he was right not to. Still, it galled Rick to leave it at that, to let the older one- the one that was responsible for all of this- go and have to kill a kid whose only crime was to get bitten by a werewolf.

“Hey,” Daryl said suddenly, reaching across to nudge at Rick’s arm, and when Rick looked, he pointed out his window, down a side street. There was a small group of people leaving one of the houses, all pushing and shoving at each other- Rick leaned over to watch them, daringly pushing into Daryl’s space. They stopped under one of the streetlights and all gathered close, a pinpoint of fire flaring to life in the center of their circle, then a long curl of smoke rising into the air above them. High school kids, from the looks of them, smoking what were most likely stolen cigarettes.

“Shit,” Rick said succinctly.

“Fuckin’ buffet,” Daryl agreed. “You bring your badge?”

It was a fair question- Rick had changed before they’d left the house, figuring the sturdier flannel of his shirt and heavy denim of his jeans would withstand a werewolf hunt better than the light fabric of his uniform. He nodded and tapped his finger against his shirt pocket, where he could feel the cool metal curve of his badge. He turned away and started to open his door, then paused for a moment, eyes on the dark street around them-

“Go on,” Daryl said quietly, his own door opening. “I got you.”

Rick climbed out of the car and circled around. The night was alive around him, the sky choked with scuttled clouds, the air singing with crickets and frogs, dogs barking and an owl hooting, the electric wet-earth smell of an approaching storm. There was ice lying along Rick’s spine, a vivid awareness that raised the hairs on his arms and had him tense- he could feel the eyes of a monster on him, watching, weighing, considering- then Daryl was next to him, crossbow up, the silver tip of the nocked arrow glittering in the scant moonlight, and Rick relaxed again. He headed off down the sidewalk, sensing more than hearing as Daryl followed him at a slower pace. He stopped a ways away from the kids and Rick didn’t look back, didn’t need to- he knew he was safe.

“Evenin’, boys,” he said as he approached, and got a vague, shuffling murmur in reply, the boys conspicuously trying to hide their cigarettes.

“Evenin’, sir,” one of the boys echoed, mocking- and Rick smiled, because he’d been hoping for a smartass.

“ ‘It’s Deputy, actually,” he said, sliding his badge out of his pocket and showing it to them, and the smartass groaned as the other boys all visibly recoiled.

“Shit,” the smartass muttered, dropping his head and shaking it, then looking up again, looking Rick in the eye, and Rick had to give him credit for that. “You need something, Deputy?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Rick said. “There’s been reports of a rabid animal in the neighborhood, so what I need most is for you boys to go on back inside.”

There was a pause, a moment- Rick could all but see the wheels turning, the boys thinking- he had a son only a few years younger than them, he knew how teenagers worked. Getting them to do something they didn’t want to do was like pulling teeth, and if they could find some way to weasel out of it, they would- all the more if it meant putting one over on a cop.

“It can go one of two ways, boys,” Rick said, interrupting any plans in the making. “Either y’all go back inside, or I knock on that door and ask whoever answers if any of you are old enough to be smoking.”

One of the boys went pale, his fingers clenching into a fist and crumpling the cigarette. The smartass glanced at him, then back at Rick, sensing that they were being let off the hook, forgiven their transgressions in the face of something that was far more deserving of Rick’s attention.

“A’right,” he said. “We’ll go back inside.”

“Now,” Rick said firmly, the same voice he used on Carl when he was done arguing, and without the apparent family immunity, it worked wonders. He waited as they all dropped their cigarettes and crushed them out, then herded them up the driveway and watched as they trooped back inside. Then he turned and headed back over to Daryl.

“Dumbasses,” the hunter muttered as Rick drew close. Rick allowed himself a chuckle and shook his head.

He was at his cruiser- he had the door open and was getting ready to get back inside- when a dog started yapping and stopped with a yip, overlapped by the start of a scream that echoed through the air, cut off abruptly with a horrible _crack_. Daryl swore and darted around to Rick’s side of the car, crossbow at the ready.

“Where’d it come from?” he demanded, and Rick looked around, his heart pounding- he thought he could hear, although it could just be his imagination, the sound of snarls, of flesh tearing and bone cracking-

“Over there,” he said, pointing past Glenn’s house, to the street on the other side, and when he started to move, a large hand pressed against his chest, forcing him back.

“You’re stayin’ here,” Daryl said.

“No, I’m not,” Rick countered, slapping Daryl’s hand away- they didn’t have time for this, someone was dying _right now_ \- “Daryl, we ain’t got time for this-”

“No, we don’t,” Daryl agreed, and Rick realized the danger too late, looked up just in time to see the butt of the crossbow coming at him.

He didn’t really black out, was just dazed for a few long seconds, pain erupting from the left side of his face- there were hands on him, pushing him, a tugging at his belt and a familiar ratcheting noise- then Rick shook it off and snarled and tried to lunge at Daryl, only to nearly dislocate his right arm. He twisted around, clawing at his wrist, his fingers encountering cool metal, and yeah, the jackass had cuffed him to the steering wheel with his own god damn handcuffs.

“ _Daryl_!” Rick bellowed, pulling uselessly at his cuffed wrist- but the hunter was already gone, disappearing around behind Glenn’s house- taking the handcuff key with him, Rick discovered as he searched his pockets. He snarled again and twisted his wrist, the metal cuff too tight and abrading his skin.

He still had his car keys, so he got in the car and put the keys in the ignition and flicked on the overhead light, then pulled his badge out of his pocket and undid the pin on the back, awkward working with his left hand. He turned his wrist so he had the best angle with the light and bent to the tedious task of picking the cuffs.

Fucking _partners_ , his ass. He should have known better.

\-----

The house behind the Rhees’ was dark, no porch light spilling out into the night- half the houses around him had their lights on, checkerboarding the night with pitch blackness and blinding light and ruining his night vision- he came up around the side, crossbow up and aimed, following the echoes of the scream and ignoring the ringing of his own name in his ears. Rick would get over it, or he wouldn’t- either way, he wouldn’t be dead, and that was all Daryl cared about.

Tuesday night, he thought, after ten by now- there wouldn’t be a lot of people out, even in summer. He pressed forward to the sidewalk, flinching at every movement, scanning and listening.

He smelled it first, that peculiar mix of old death and new blood, a predator’s perfume. Then he saw it, a red stain on the sidewalk, the body of a small dog lying in the grass, a dark smear damping down the grass in a trail that led straight to a large mulberry bush standing beside one of the houses. Daryl moved sideways, approaching at an angle so he would be close enough to shoot it but not close enough for it to reach him in one bound, slow and careful, crossbow up-

Something gave a wet crunch, a slurp and a snarl, and then Daryl could see it, crouched behind the bush, blood on its hands and smeared over its face. It looked, at first glance, like a guy- a guy running around in his boxers, for some reason, but just a guy. The shoulders might have been a bit hunched up, the neck too short to match the body, the arms too long, but nothing about any of that screamed _not human_ , not until the thing turned towards you and you got a look at its face, at the blunt muzzle that had pushed through its human features, at its reflective yellow eyes. It reached down into the darkness at its feet and there was the sickly wet tear of flesh, and Daryl took one step more, holding his breath as he aimed-

There was a noise, a shrieking- a garage door opening- and the werewolf turned, half-rising to its feet, in the same second Daryl pulled the trigger. Its head snapped around at the twang of the string, but then the arrow hit, and it howled in pure agony as the silver burned. Daryl swore as he dropped his bow, bracing its nose against the ground and pulling the string back, yanking the second silver arrow out of the quiver- the wolf had stood up and turned towards him, so instead of hitting the heart, the arrow had gone into its side, dug in deep just above its hip. The werewolf howled again, clawing uselessly at the arrow, and Daryl brought his bow up again-

The werewolf saw him, recognized him as the source of its pain, and came right at him.

He lunged out of the way just in time, hearing the whistling above his head as the werewolf’s claws parted the air. He hit the ground and rolled, the werewolf skidding to a stop several steps beyond him, scrambling to get his bow up as the wolf wheeled back around and just barely managing to block the next swing with the body of his bow. He twisted it around, grabbing the arrow off it and stabbing it deep into the werewolf’s leg, and the wolf howled again and jerked away and ran, away from this human that could cause it so much pain. Daryl let it go for the second, focused on catching his breath, checking the arrow- bloody, but intact- then he was pushing himself up to his feet and running after the thing.

It darted between the houses across the street- someone poked their head out a window and yelled at Daryl to shut his damn dog up already as he ran past- and over the four-foot white picket fence bordering one of the back yards. Daryl paused there, looking down at the dark stain of blood on the grass- it had pulled the arrow out, leaving it on the grass snapped in half, the head with its precious silver point lying a few feet away from the broken shaft. He grabbed up both halves and stuffed them into his pocket, then vaulted the fence and followed the blood trail.

The wolf was injured, not nearly so fast now- it had to hole up somewhere and lick its wounds, it had to stop soon. Daryl followed its trail through yards and across streets, occasionally getting a glimpse of the creature itself, a dark limping figure that always snarled when it saw him and ducked away, disappearing into the tangle of houses and streets. It seemed to have a destination in mind, was clearly making its way through the neighborhood with a purpose, but he couldn’t guess it.

Then he heard the squealing of brakes and a car horn, and he swore and broke into a flat-out run.

He was too late, far too late- the last yard back up onto a divider road, then farmland beyond, a mid-sized corn field the werewolf was already vanishing into. The corn was waist-high but the beast hunched over as it ran, making a beeline for the trees bordering the field, and for one insane moment, Daryl considered following it. But the field favored the wolf- bad visibility, easy ambush- so Daryl had to let it go.

He swore again and kicked at a chunk of asphalt torn free from the road and paced back and forth, wanting to scream, wanting to chase after it and put the next arrow through its fucking _eye_.

Daryl staggered a few steps back and sat down in the grass, folded his legs and bent forward until his hair was brushing his jeans, laced his fingers together and pressed his hands down onto the back of his neck. The werewolf knew he was out here, now, knew he could hurt it. It wouldn’t come back here again, which was good news for Glenn, but bad news for everybody else in town, especially the person it had killed tonight.

“Fuck,” he said, then sat back upright, pushed himself up to his feet and slung his crossbow over his shoulder and started the long journey back.

\-----

The cruiser was sitting where Daryl had last seen it, which was honestly more than he’d expected- he’d cuffed Rick to the wheel so he could drive and left the car keys, so he’d half-thought the man would be gone. Instead, he was sitting patiently, waiting, turned in his seat so his legs were out the door with his right arm draped across the wheel- still cuffed, then. Daryl had also expected him to be out of them by now.

“Where’s the body?” Rick asked as he approached, and if ice could talk…

“Which one?” Daryl countered, too pissed to care. “The woman? Right over there. The werewolf, hell if I know.”

“You lost it?” Rick demanded, his hands curling into fists.

“Shut up, you don’t know shit,” Daryl snapped, suddenly furious. “Fuckin’ _civilian_ , tryin’ to save a fuckin’ _werewolf_ …”

“This ain’t my fault,” Rick snapped back. “What could you have done any differently if I weren’t here?”

Nothing, was the thing. Rick had done nothing to fuck up this hunt, which meant it was Daryl’s fault, it meant Daryl had let someone else die. He’d been too busy watching Rick get his badass on with those kids and not doing his fucking job, and a person had died as a result-

There was movement, lazy-fast greased lightning like an old Wild West gunslinger with a perfect quick-draw- Daryl was still primed for a werewolf, but he wasn’t fast enough, he’d gotten too close, he’d looked away- Rick pushed the crossbow aside and brought his Colt up, snake-strike fast, and the world exploded into wheeling stars and pain. Daryl staggered, blinded- then his feet were kicked out from under him, dropping him to his knees, then down further to the ground, a heavy point of pressure landing on his back between his shoulder blades, pinning him down as his hands were dragged around behind him. He heard the handcuffs rattle, tighten, felt the pressure on his wrists, but he couldn’t breathe to fight back, the pressure on his back compressing his lungs.

After a moment, the pressure eased a little, not backing off entirely but allowing Daryl to breathe. His jaw ached where the bastard had pistol-whipped him, and his knees stung like he’d taken a layer of skin off them when they impacted the asphalt road, and he couldn’t move for the weight on his back. He turned his face to the side, glaring up out of the corner of his eye to Rick, who was kneeling over him.

“Now,” Rick said, almost conversationally, “it was about this time yesterday you were savin’ my life, and my family’s lives, and I haven’t forgotten that. It’s the only reason I’m not readin' you your rights now.”

Daryl said nothing, didn’t know what was safe to say. He twisted his hands, shifted his hips, but Rick had settled his weight onto Daryl’s back, bracing himself on the hunter, and Daryl didn’t have the leverage to buck him off.

“But if you ever pull that shit on me again,” Rick added, his voice smoothly sinister, “I will arrest you for real.”

Then the pressure was gone entirely, and Daryl pushed himself up immediately, scooting away from Rick as the cop stood and moved a few steps away. He twisted around, searching his pockets as best he could with his hands still cuffed behind his back, then looked up at the cop- and sure enough, Rick had the handcuff key in his hand, apparently having liberated it from Daryl during that neat little takedown. He looked older, tired, so very done with all of this shit.

“C’mere,” he said quietly, and Daryl stared at him until he sighed and went over to the hunter, hesitating when Daryl instinctively flinched from his approach. Still, the hunter held still for him as he circled around and knelt down behind him, hands suddenly gentle on Daryl as he undid the cuffs. He moved away and sat down on the road right next to Daryl, staring off into the darkness, in the direction Daryl had said the body was in.

“ ‘S not your fault, either,” Rick said finally, quietly, looking at Daryl, and Daryl managed to hold his gaze for a few seconds before he had to look away. “None of this is on either of us,” he added. “But we gotta do better than this.”

Daryl nodded and looked down, studying the blood on his knees. Then he pushed himself up, standing and moving away, picking up his crossbow from where he’d dropped it when Rick had cuffed him. He swung it over his shoulder, then doubled back, hesitating- then held out his hand for Rick to take. The cop stared at him for a moment, then took his hand and pulled himself up.

“I should call this in,” he said as they headed back over to the car, each one sore and bleeding from the marks they had left on each other- Daryl didn’t think the werewolf had even touched him, not so much as a scratch- all the pain he’d suffered tonight had been from Rick, a courtesy returned for the pain he’d inflicted on the other man. He was right- they had to do better.

“An’ tell ‘em what?” he asked quietly. 

Rick didn’t have an answer to that. He stared past the Rhee house for a long moment, then got into the car, waiting patiently for Daryl to arrange himself and his crossbow before he started the engine.

“Told you,” Daryl said, almost to himself. “ ‘S a shitty job.”

Rick didn’t answer that one, either. 

\-----

They retreated to their separate corners when they got home- got back to Daryl’s house, when the hell had Rick started referring to it as ‘home’?- Daryl to the kitchen with a beer, Rick to the guest room. It wasn’t safe for either of them to be in the room with the other yet. Rick paced the small bedroom, simmering and stewing , wanting so much to go back downstairs and- and-

And do what? he asked himself, and deflated with a long, tired sigh. They couldn’t keep doing this, seesawing back and forth like this. They were in this together, for better or worse, and there were lives at stake here, innocent people depending on them. They needed to buck up and starting behaving like adults for once, no matter how scary it may be. He rubbed his left hand over his right wrist, over the bruised and torn skin from the too-tight handcuff, and sighed again, then pushed himself up to his feet.

Daryl’s crossbow had been left hanging from its strap on a coat hook inside the front door. Rick couldn’t help but smile tiredly at the sight- hunter meets domesticity. Then he noticed something, pulled the bow away from the wall and turned it to see better, and what little anger had lingered twisted sideways into sickening fear, a sensation of a bullet having been narrowly dodged.

There were grooves carved widthwise into the body of the bow that hadn’t been there hours ago, four clean, deep lines that looked an awful lot like claw marks.

Rick didn’t even realize he was moving until he was in the kitchen, pulling out the chair across from Daryl and sitting down, the hunter giving him a wary look. He looked away, rubbed at his brow, then met Daryl’s gaze.

“We fucked up tonight,” he said, and Daryl scowled and looked away. “Hey,” Rick said, and when Daryl was looking at him again, he added, “We fucked up because you don’t trust me.”

“The hell does that mean,” Daryl began, but Rick shook his head, cutting him off.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You don’t trust me to take care of myself. An’ I get why, I do- I’m new to all this, I don’t know what’s goin’ on.” He sat back in his chair a little bit, picked Daryl’s crossbow up from the floor where he’d put it down and dropped it onto the table between them, the claw marks facing the hunter. Daryl was silent, the cold beer bottle pressed against his jaw where Rick had pistol-whipped him, his eyes on his bow. Rick nodded to himself, not surprised by this response, and pushed on, daring to ask the question he had always suspected was off-limits, no matter what.

“What happened in Hattiesburg?” he asked, and Daryl’s gaze snapped up to him, eyes going dark and stormy.

“Ain’t none of your business,” he snapped, sitting forward in preparation of leaving.

“You made it my business when you handcuffed me to my car rather than let me back you up,” Rick countered. 

“You couldn’t’ve helped,” Daryl snarled.

“I could’ve distracted it, stopped it from doing _this_ ,” Rick said, tapping the bow. “I know I’m in over my head here, Daryl. That’s why _I_ trust _you_ \- I have to. But you don’t trust me, an’ I think I know why.”

Daryl stared at him, rigid with anger. “Why’s that,” he said finally, not really a question.

“I met Merle, remember?” Rick pointed out softly. “I think you don’t trust me ‘cause you don’t know what a real partner is supposed to be.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spat, lunging to his feet. “That’s my _brother_ , you prick.”

“I know that,” Rick said, still sitting, trying to keep it from spinning out of control- he needed Daryl calm, he needed Daryl to talk to him. “I also know you’re pretty broken up about whatever happened, and he couldn’t care less. Two people died in Hattiesburg, Daryl,” he added. “Just tell me what happened. It might help.”

For one long moment, Daryl was frozen, torn between fight and flight. Then he closed his eyes, shuddered, and slumped, all the fight going out of him. He sat back down and dragged his crossbow over to him, touching the claw marks carved into the grip.

“They were movin’ bodies, diggin’ up old graves,” he said abruptly, not looking up at Rick. “Pisses the spirits off, havin’ their bones disturbed. Wakes ‘em up, sometimes. Me’n Merle, we heard about it on the news, thought we’d go check it out before any bodies started dropping.” He looked away, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Merle was back on crystal, an’ he was running low, getting antsy. He wanted to go that day, instead of waiting for night. There were some people out at the graveyard, protestin’ the move. He said we’d blend right in.”

This much, Rick knew- he’d read the file- but he kept silent.

“We got in, got past security with some fake IDs. Figured out we had a couple of spirits, old ones.” He looked at Rick again, finally, and jerked his chin to indicate Rick’s house. “That over there’s a baby spirit. It don’t know jack. The old ones, though…” He shook his head, left it at that, left Rick to imagine it. “They came after us in broad daylight, damn near killed us. We were on our way out when we heard a scream. Couple of the protestors had followed us in.” His grip on the beer bottle had gone tight, his knuckles white with the exertion. “Sparrow, her name was. He was Jim, or somethin’, I don’t remember- they’d already gotten him, ripped him apart. But Sparrow was alive. I told her she’d be fine, that I’d get her out of there.”

Except he hadn’t, Rick knew that too. Daryl was almost shaking now, staring down at his crossbow again, lost in the memory, and Rick ached to touch him, to offer him comfort- ached to wrap his arms around the hunter and soothe him until all memory of his scars, physical and emotional, was forgotten- but that would only make it harder for Daryl, so he kept his distance.

“Most hunters, we help people,” Daryl said. “ ‘S what makes the job worth it- you get to save lives. But some hunters only hunt ‘cause they like killin’ shit. Merle’s one of them. I can’t help thinkin’, if he were less focused on gettin’ himself outta there…” He didn’t finish, couldn’t seem to. He took a long swallow of beer, then another, then set the empty bottle aside with a shaking hand.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” he said flatly as he stood. He moved past Rick, pausing in the doorway. “ ‘M sorry,” he added quietly, then left the room, leaving Rick to sit in the silence.

It had been about what he expected- but now he knew, and he knew other things too, like what had driven Daryl to retiring, why the possibility of an innocent’s death bothered him so much- he cared, probably too much for his job. He _cared_.

“So’m I,” he said quietly, into the darkness, and there was no one around to hear it but him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not late, I still have two hours by my clock!
> 
> This is an exposition chapter, plain and simple, and I apologize for it. Unfortunately, it needed to happen. Rick needed a little bit of the spotlight back on himself. (also, my love for Maggie and Daryl as monster-slaying bffs knows no bounds.)

_June 19th,9.28 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

Rick woke up to a ringing phone and the vague pressure of a headache building up in the base of his skull- he’d polished off the six pack of beer he’d found in the fridge last night, which wouldn’t have been so bad, except Daryl had only taken one beer out of it so there’d been five left. Not enough for Rick to get drunk, but he’d done his best, and he was paying for it now.

He let the phone ring, fairly sure he knew who it was and what they wanted, and he just wasn’t in the mood for that yet today. He’d called in last night, warning them not to expect him today, but if they’d found that body, that might not fly anymore. Another shitty excuse for missing work today, another round of werewolf hunting- hopefully, somewhere in there, mend some bridges with Daryl, because if they couldn’t afford to have another night like last night.

The sky out the window was a dull, slate grey, the storm that had been threatening last night rolling in to smother the town. Rick could practically taste the humidity, sticky and heavy on his skin, the sheets plastered to his body, and he sighed and rolled out of bed and went over to close the window. He sorted through the duffel bag of clothes, picking out the cleanest shirt and taking last night’s jeans, then grabbed a towel from the linen closet in the hallway.

The shower was in the bathroom off of the master bedroom, in which Daryl was sleeping. Rick didn’t quite tiptoe, but he moved as silently as he could, watching the man in the bed the whole time. Daryl had kicked off the blankets and sheets as he slept, tying them into knots around him- Rick could only guess at the nightmares he had, could only assume his job and his life gave him plenty of material- and Rick dared a few steps closer when he didn’t stir, looked down on him. He was lying on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow, his back bare and exposed, and Rick felt his stomach twist at the sight of it.

He’d expected scars- he’d seen a few of them himself, on Daryl’s arms and shoulders, the one on his belly- it was a rough life, hunting, a dangerous life. But the majority of the scars crisscrossing Daryl’s back weren’t from claws or teeth or whatever else the supernatural might come at him with. They were lash marks, most likely from a belt. Daryl had never once claimed to have had a good childhood- quite the opposite, he had all the indicators that he’d had a horrible one- but Rick had assumed it was growing up a hunter that had damaged Daryl so badly. But this- this explained a lot.

Rick moved away, forced himself to look away, headed into the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind him. It was over, it was done, the damage was inflicted and the scars left to linger, and there was nothing Rick could do about it.

Twenty minutes later, he was downstairs, pouring himself some Froot Loops since there was not much else to choose from, a silent ache blossoming in his chest. Just yesterday morning, he’d come downstairs to a surprisingly domestic scene- Daryl eating breakfast at the kitchen table, Carl playing with Judith in the living room. But today, Rick was alone, nothing but a crossbow on the table to keep him company.

He was eyeing the expiration date on the milk with suspicion when there was a knock on the front door. Rick looked up, his hand instantly going to his gun- he’d put it on without thinking, part of every outfit he wore anymore. He put the milk down and headed towards the front door, pausing only to look out the peephole, then opened the door and slid outside, shutting it behind him so as to not wake Daryl.

“Yeah?” he said to the man on the porch- a Latino man, a little taller than Rick, face haggard like he hadn’t slept last night and beard coming in thick. He looked Rick over, his eyes catching and lingering on the Colt at Rick’s side.

“.357,” he said, and Rick looked down at the gun briefly before meeting the man’s gaze again. He was smiling, his expression a hair too sharp to be friendly. “Well, damn,” he said. “Not what I would’ve expected.”

“An’ you are?” Rick prompted, and the man nodded.

“Caesar Martinez,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

“Never heard of you,” Rick said easily.

“Does that surprise you?” Martinez asked, sounding more amused than offended by the slight. “You could call me a supplier for hunters,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Weapons, ammo, information- you name it, I can get it for you.” He took out a cardboard cartridge box and shook it a little bit, listening to the rattle inside. Then he held it out, and Rick took the box and flipped the flap up, somehow already knowing what he’d see.

There were two .357 bullets rolling around in the small box, the casings the typical brass, but the points were shining too brightly even in the cloudy day to be anything but pure silver.

“Let me guess,” Rick said distantly, feeling very disconnected from his own body as he took one of the bullets out to study it. “Couple pieces of silverware?”

“Yeah, he dropped ‘em off yesterday,” Martinez said with a nod. “I cast ‘em as quick as I could, but a .357 mold was hard to come by.”

“Will they fire right?” Rick asked, carefully putting the bullet back in the box and folding the flap back down.

“It might jam,” Martinez replied. “But then again, so might any other bullet, and no other bullet’ll stop a werewolf.”

Rick held the box tight, tight enough that the thin cardboard started to fold in on itself. His wedding present, his wife’s silverware, cast into bullets to kill a werewolf. There was something eminently satisfying about that- the end of an era, with a bullet, literally. A new page in the life of Rick Grimes, Sheriff’s Deputy and part-time hunter.

“I got some silver left over, so tell him if he wants it back, fine, but if not, he’s paid up,” Martinez said, already walking away. He paused one last time to look back, studying Rick again, that sharp smile returning. “You know, now that I think about it, you’re just his type,” he said. “Daryl always did like rolling over for the alpha dogs.”

Rick bristled a little at the implication, instinctively, mostly caught up in the words, because that meant- he couldn’t be saying that Daryl was- but Martinez didn’t explain himself, just smirked and walked away, heading towards the car parked at the end of the driveway. He tossed Rick a wave as he went, not bothering to look back, and Rick watched him drive away.

He went inside and pulled his gun out of the holster, laying it on the table beside Daryl’s crossbow, then put the cartridge box down next to it. A moment’s search turned up the three silver arrows, one broken in two, and he laid those down on the table as well, then stepped back. Hardly an impressive display of force, but that wasn’t what mattered.

There was a laptop bag sitting on one of the chairs. Rick grabbed it, pulled the laptop out and booted it up. The wolf was unpredictable, but its overall behavior had a pattern- a human motive, if not a human killer- and Rick could find that. It was his job to find human motives.

Time to get back to work.

\-----

He was caught, trapped, snow brushing the air and the grass a dead brown beneath his feet, Sparrow a warm presence close beside him- he had to get her out of here, had to escape the spirits- fuckin’ Merle had disappeared on him and the spirits had boxed him in on three sides, cutting him off, pushing him deeper into the graveyard-

_blood painting the dead grass in gouts, arterial spray, red as Christmas holly in the air_ -

“Daryl!” a familiar voice called, and he grabbed for it, anchored himself with it, fighting his way out of the nightmare and following the sure touch of a hand on his shoulder.

He jerked awake with a deep gulp of air, like he’d been underwater, and pushed himself up, levering himself up onto his elbows. Rick was kneeling next to his bed, one hand still on Daryl’s shoulder as the hunter sorted himself out- he was on his stomach, his back and his scars clearly visible, but there was no point in trying to hide it now. Finally, he lifted his head and looked Rick in the eye, silently daring him to say a word.

Instead, Rick just looked back, steady as always. “We need to talk,” he said calmly, soothingly. “They found the body an’ I have to go in for a while.”

“So go,” Daryl said muzzily.

“Get dressed, I have more to tell you,” Rick countered, then stood up and strode out as Daryl swore at him. He collapsed back down onto the bed, buried his face in the pillows again, then sighed and rolled out of bed.

Rick was in the kitchen when Daryl made it downstairs, dressed in last night’s clothes because they were closest at hand. The cop was wearing dusty black jeans and a shockingly white t-shirt, his gun low on his hip, looking like some male model from a Levi’s commercial. He was standing in front of the laptop, sitting open on the kitchen table. Daryl circled around him, stopping and squinting at the neat row of empty beer bottles on the counter beside the sink.

“You drink all my beer?” he asked suspiciously, looking back over at Rick.

“Yes,” Rick said, flatly unapologetic. He stepped away from the laptop, picked something up off the table. “Also, your friend came by, dropped these off,” he said, holding out his hand, and Daryl took a step closer and saw a silver-tipped bullet.

“Martinez?” he asked, and Rick nodded, which- _fuck_. Daryl had never wanted Rick and Martinez to meet- Martinez knew things about Daryl he’d rather nobody knew, especially Rick, and the jackass liked to shoot his mouth off. Still, Rick didn’t seem to be treating him any differently, save for the very obvious decision to not talk about what happened the previous night, which Daryl wholeheartedly supported.

“Thank you,” he said, very quietly, and Daryl looked away. He grabbed the box of Froot Loops off the counter and pulled a handful of the colorful cereal out, tossing it back.

“So what’ve you got?” he asked around the crunch of dry cereal, anxious to move the conversation along. Rick spared him a single glance, a wry smile on his lips.

“I’ve been so busy learnin’ how to do your job, I forgot how to do mine,” he said. “You said it yourself- a human motive, right?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, taking another handful of cereal.

“Would jealousy do it?” Rick asked, and Daryl snorted.

“Hell, yeah,” he said. “Prob’ly the best motivator of ‘em all, if the wolf thinks Glenn took something that belonged to it.”

“Glenn told me yesterday that Randall looked familiar to him,” Rick said, spinning the laptop around so Daryl could see it. He was on the local high school’s web page, on the virtual yearbook. “They went to high school together,” he said.

“So’d the rest of this damn town,” Daryl said, but he moved closer, lured in by the quiet genius of Rick in his element. He’d forgotten, just as much as Rick had, that this was his job, that this was what he was good at.

“Same year,” Rick said, ignoring Daryl’s comment. “Randall went to UGA after graduatin’, and Glenn stayed home to help out his family.”

“So, what? High school grudge?” Daryl frowned. “They’re a little old for that, an’ Glenn don’t seem the bullyin’ type.”

“Yeah, he’s not,” Rick agreed. He scrolled the screen up a bit, stopping on a new row of teenaged faces. “Problem is, they both went to school with her.”

Daryl leaned forward a little bit, scanning the faces, and his gaze snagged on one name in particular. “Greene?” he read. “Like, Hershel Greene, farmer with the dead cow?”

“That’s his daughter, Maggie,” Rick said, and Daryl frowned. Boyish haircut, braces on her teeth, a bloom of freckles across her nose- she wasn’t much to look at, but then, that was six years ago. “She went to UGA, too. Lived in the same co-ed dorm as Randall, even.”

“Shit,” Daryl muttered, the pieces starting to click into place.

“She dropped out last semester when her stepmother died, to help out around the house,” Rick said. “Met Glenn a couple weeks ago, at my house.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl said, leaning back again. “ ‘S a fucking love triangle.” With a werewolf in the middle of it, and wasn’t that bound to get messy.

“Oh, it gets better,” Rick said. “Remember that summer job I said Randall came back here for? He’s a vet tech for a local animal hospital. He delivers supplies to Maggie’s father out sometimes. The night the cow died, Hershel was called out to a neighbor’s with a sickly calf. Randall came out after dark to drop some supplies off.”

“An’ ran into a feedin’ werewolf on his way,” Daryl finished. He could see it so easily- the wolf, sated and slow and bloody, nearly getting run down on the road- Randall getting out because he thought he’d just hit a person- the wolf biting him, because if it killed him it wouldn’t be able to stop itself from taking the heart and that would put any local hunters onto its scent.

“Not that any of this helps us,” Rick said, sounding momentarily defeated, but a chill went down Daryl’s spine, realization unfolding in his mind.

“Rick,” he said, his voice gone rough, and the cop glanced up at him. “If Randall’s been on that farm, if he knows where Maggie lives, the wolf’ll go there.”

“It doesn’t want her dead,” Rick protested, but Daryl could see that he got it, his face going pale and his jaw going tight.

“Nah, it won’t kill her,” he agreed. “It’ll turn her.”

Rick said nothing, those words sinking in, settling like stones on the bottom of a river. Then, after a few long minutes of silence, he said, “I’m not goin’ to the station.”

“Yeah, you are,” Daryl told him, moving away again, back over to his cereal box.

“Did you not hear what you just said?” Rick demanded.

“We got hours ‘til sunset,” Daryl pointed out. “You get fired, we’re both screwed. I’ll go to the farm, tell ‘em what’s goin’ on. You come when you can.”

Rick shook his head, determination in every line of his body, and Daryl wondered at how blind he’d been, how he could have possibly missed it- Rick Grimes didn’t just have hunter steel in him, he was made out of it, cast from it straight from the mold.

“We got time,” Daryl continued. “One of the best thing ‘bout werewolves, we got time.”

Finally, Rick unbent a little bit. “A’right,” he said, and turned away, snapping the laptop shut. “I gotta get changed,” he said.

“See you there,” Daryl said, and Rick nodded and headed upstairs.

\-----

The approach to the Greene farmhouse had several blind curves and switches in it, all perfect for the spot where Randall would have gotten bit. Daryl paused at the likeliest candidate, took the time to inspect the road, the trees lining it- but there would have been precious little to find even the day after, let alone a month later. 

There was someone waiting on the porch as Daryl drove up to the house, probably alerted by the sound of his motorcycle. He killed the engine and stood, eyes narrowed, because that looked like Glenn, and it couldn’t be- Rick had said he’d talked to the kid yesterday, but he hadn’t said anything about Glenn holing up here.

“Daryl,” the kid called, excitement and relief all in one, and yeah, it was Glenn. Daryl felt himself scowl, got off his bike and headed up the porch stairs.

“The hell are you doin’ here?” he demanded, and Glenn’s smile faltered a bit.

“You told me to get out of town,” he said, sounding a bit like a kicked puppy, and Daryl grunted. He had told him that- he just hadn’t guessed that in telling the kid to get somewhere safe, he’d actually end up in far greater danger than he was at home. “Is everything all right?” Glenn asked anxiously. “I heard that someone died last night.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed shortly, not interested in elaborating on that one. “I need to talk to y’all,” he said. “Is Maggie around?”

“Yeah,” a strong female voice said from behind Glenn, and Daryl looked past the kid, to the woman standing in the doorway, the screen door still closed between them. She pushed the door open and came out onto the porch, and although Daryl could see in her the awkward child she had once been, even he had to admit that she had grown up pretty, all cat-green eyes and a pretty smile, her freckles softened against her face, her hair just long enough to curl around her ears. “Who’re you?” she asked.

“Daryl Dixon,” he said, not offering his hand, shuffling slightly in place- Maggie was steel, too, a different sort than hunters needed, but strong nonetheless. “ ‘M a hunter.”

“He’s working with Rick on the werewolf thing,” Glenn added, taking a hitching step closer to Maggie, and she looked at him- her face softened when she did, her guard going down, her mouth curving up into an involuntary smile, her body swaying into his- so this is love, Daryl thought abstractly. He’d never seen it before.

“You catch him yet?” Maggie asked, turning back to Daryl.

“No,” Daryl said. “Figured out what he’s after, though, an’ where he’s gonna be tonight.”

They were both quick, he had to give them that. Maggie’s face went tight, her eyes widening, and Glenn sucked in a sharp breath, his hand reaching out and grabbing blindly until Maggie caught it and laced her fingers with his.

“It’s trying to kill me now?” she asked, her voice trembling just a bit, her chin dipping a little.

“You remember a guy named Randall Moore?” Daryl asked, dodging the question for the moment. He didn’t know what answer would be best, to hear that it wanted her dead, or that it wanted to turn her. Maggie blinked at the question, shifting her weight a little.

“Randall, yeah,” she said. “We dated for a couple of months last year.”

“What?” Glenn blurted, pulling his hand away, taking a step back to stare at her. “You dated a _werewolf_?”

“Randall’s the werewolf?” Maggie countered.

“Yeah!” Glenn said. “Rick told me yesterday, and you never said you dated a werewolf!”

“He wasn’t a werewolf then, and if you knew he was the werewolf, why didn’t you told me?” Maggie asked, and Daryl had retreated several steps by now, blinking at the accidental apocalypse he appeared to have set off.

“What’s going on here?” a new voice asked, cutting into the argument with ease, and Hershel Greene came up the porch stairs, flicking a glance at his daughter and her boyfriend before pinning Daryl with a long, steady stare. “Mr. Dixon,” he said evenly, coming to a halt between Daryl and the two kids. “I take it this isn’t a social visit.”

“Oh, God,” Glenn said from behind Hershel, apparently still lost in this new revelation of Maggie’s dating history. “It all makes sense now. The werewolf’s trying to kill me ‘cause I’m dating his girlfriend.”

Hershel closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to look behind him. When he turned back to Daryl, there was patient exasperation written across his face.

“I think you’d better come in,” he said. He held the door for Maggie and Glenn and watched as Daryl slowly approached, wary- he remembered this house from his last visit, remembered the feeling of not belonging, a constant grating reminder that he had nothing, was nothing. He stepped over the threshold and stopped two steps in, waiting as Hershel stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“I’d rather you leave your weapon here,” he said, and Daryl lowered his crossbow to the ground, turning it so its nose rested against the wall. He followed the older man into the kitchen, where Hershel turned back to face him. “Now, what is this about my daughter dating a werewolf?” he asked.

“Randall Moore,” Daryl said, and watched recognition spark in the old man’s eyes. “He’s the werewolf. She said she went out with him last year.”

Hershel looked down at the table, at his hands wrapped around the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “And now you think he’s coming here to kill Maggie.”

“No,” Daryl said. “I think he’s comin’ here to turn her.” There was a noise from the kitchen doorway and he looked over, saw Maggie standing there.

“Randall would never hurt anyone,” she said.

“He ain’t got a choice,” Daryl replied. “It ain’t him in control. He’s jealous of Glenn, so the wolf tries to kill Glenn. He wants you back…”

“So the wolf comes to get me,” she finished. “Did he kill that woman last night?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said with a nod. “Tried to stop it, but we weren’t fast enough. I hurt it pretty bad, though, so it won’t go back there. It knows I know how to find it, and how to hurt it.”

She closed her eyes and looked away, and Hershel moved over to her, put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her in close. She leaned back against him, and Daryl looked away, feeling he was intruding.

“We need to leave,” Hershel said quietly. “How long do we have until it comes here?”

“Sunset’s in ten hours,” Daryl said, “but runnin’ ain’t gonna help. It’ll just follow her scent.”

“I’m not gonna run from this thing for the rest of my life,” Maggie said. “How do we stop it?”

“Silver,” Glenn said from behind Hershel, left stranded in the hallway by the father and daughter blocking the doorway. “Silver for werewolves, right?”

“Silver through the heart,” Daryl agreed. “You should still go, though, you an’ whoever else is here. Glenn an’ Maggie need to stay, but the rest of y’all don’t need to be here.”

There was a long silence, a battle of the wills- then Hershel stepped away from Maggie, back into the kitchen. “Maggie, go help Beth pack a bag,” he said, not taking his eyes off Daryl. “Glenn, you tell Patricia and Jimmy that they have a few days off. Go on, now,” he added when they both hesitated. He waited until they were gone, then moved into the kitchen again. “Do you have a plan?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Daryl said. “Rick’n I’ll figure it out when he gets here. We’d appreciate your help,” he added.

“Where is Rick?” Hershel asked.

“Got called in,” Daryl replied. “He’ll be here.”

“And the woman last night?” Hershel pressed. “You say you hurt the werewolf pretty bad last night. Why isn’t it dead, then? And how did it kill that woman if you were there to stop it?”

Daryl sucked in a deep breath, lifted his chin a little. He wanted to lie, wanted to tell the old man that it was none of his business- but Hershel Greene was a no-nonsense sort of man, one who could smell bullshit a mile off, and Daryl owed him the truth. The man was putting his daughter’s life in their hands, and so far they had a track record for failure. _We gotta do better than this_ , Rick had said, the words echoing in Daryl’s mind.

“We had some issues to work out, me’n Rick,” he said. “But we didn’t, so someone died.”

“And have you worked it out?” Hershel asked.

“Wouldn’t be tellin’ you to trust us if we hadn’t,” Daryl replied. “ _We_ didn’t screw up last night, _I_ did. I ain’t doin’ that again.” He looked down at his boots, then forced himself to look up again, look Hershel in the eye. “ ‘M tired of losin’ people,” he said simply, and Hershel nodded gravely, accepting that- maybe it was the broken-down way Daryl said it, or maybe it was something in his face, something he let show despite himself- but Hershel accepted it, and moved on to business.

“What do we do?” he asked, and Daryl shifted thankfully into hunter mode.

“Turn on all the lights, outside and in,” Daryl said. “Won’t wanna come inside that way, an’ you’ll see it comin’ if it gets close to the house. Got any guns?”

“A couple rifles, in case of coyotes,” Hershel said, something dark and grim in his tone, some piece of history Daryl didn’t know and probably never would.

“Headshots, if you can,” he said. “Won’t kill it, but a bullet through the brain will slow anythin’ down.” 

“You said silver through the heart kills them. Will touching silver hurt them?” Hershel asked.

“Burns ‘em like acid,” Daryl confirmed. “Why? You got any ‘round here?”

Hershel actually chuckled at that. “Son,” he said, and Daryl flinched a little at that- no one had ever called him that before, no one had taken that tone of paternal affection with him before, “almost everything in this house is at least a century old. Believe me, there is plenty of silver around here.”

“A’right,” Daryl said with a nod. “You get all that. I’m gonna head on outside, see if I can figure out a plan.”

“Daryl,” Hershel said as Daryl headed out, causing the hunter to pause and look back. “I’m trusting you,” the older man said quietly. “Don’t screw up tonight.”

Daryl bit his lip to hold in his response, nodded, and headed out.

\-----

She found him eventually- after she sent Beth away with Patricia and Jimmy, after she spent an hour wandering the farm- found him out by the old sheep shearer’s hut that had burned in her great-grandfather’s day, nothing left of it but the stone floor and the crumbling chimney. He looked up as she approached, then looked away again, shifting the crossbow on his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t be out here,” he said. He was leaning against the chimney, staring out over the land around them, and Maggie came up beside him to see as well, looking at with new eyes- the tactical eyes of a general, planning for war, instead of the eyes of a young girl looking at her home. The house was on top of a hill, that would help, but the tree line cozied up to the house on two sides, barely twenty feet away from the west face and back wall of the house, and there were far too many wide, tall windows adorning its face.

“I’ve got nine hours,” she said. “And I’m serious when I said I’m not running from this thing.”

“If he turns you-” Daryl began.

“He?” Maggie echoed with a scoff, not unkind, just pointed. “Earlier _he_ was _it_ , now it’s _he_ again? You don’t need to pander to me, Daryl.”

The hunter turned sharply, suddenly, a motion in direct contrast to his customary oil-spill slick grace, turned to study her, and she took the opportunity to return the favor. Daryl Dixon was the sort of man every good girl was told to watch out for- a gruff voice and a rough-edged personality, balanced out with a sweetheart face and stunning eyes, just enough of that bad boy aura to make him alluring. The crossbow didn’t help, especially with a farm girl who knew her weapons and knew that was a sexy piece of violence slung over his shoulder. But still, there was something about him that made her think _beaten dog_ more than _ladykiller_.

“A’right,” Daryl said finally with a slight nod, acknowledging her, and she knew then that she’d made the right choice in coming to him. “No panderin’. You need somethin’?”

“Come with me,” Maggie said, and when she moved away, she couldn’t help smiling as she heard him follow. Definitely made the right choice, then- Maggie Greene was a grown woman who didn’t need a man to protect her or make her choices for her, but for the moment, she was surrounded by men all trying to do exactly that. Best to throw her lot in with the one man who would follow her lead instead of expect her to blindly follow his.

She led him to the old barn, weathered and grey and listing ever-so-slightly to the left, led him inside and stood in the center of the space and watched as he circled the building, looking around, then finally came back over to stand before her, patiently waiting her explanation.

“Rick thinks I’m a child, and so does my dad, and Glenn thinks I’m a victim.” Honestly, she didn’t know which one was worse, although at the moment she was leaning towards _victim_. God spare her from men and their hero complexes. “I’m not either. I can help,” she finished, and Daryl looked at her again, then looked around the barn again. There was only one door, and the three windows the barn boasted were all second-story, with no way to get to them from the outside.

“A trap,” he said quietly. “An’ you’re volunteerin’ to be the bait.”

“You said he’ll follow my scent, right?” Maggie said, taking hope in the fact that he hadn’t shut her down already. “It’s gotta be me or Glenn, and Glenn can’t run.”

Daryl paced away, stopping at the ladder that led up to the hay loft. He looked up it, then grabbed hold of the ladder and shook it, raising an eyebrow at how poorly anchored it was.

“I go up there, kick the ladder down, you and Rick wait outside for it to come in,” she said. “Will it work?”

“Rick ain’t gonna like it,” Daryl predicted, and it was almost sweet, how out of all the issues he could have had with her suggestion, Rick’s reaction was the first one that he went to.

“Neither will Glenn or my dad,” Maggie pointed out. “But that’s not what I’m asking. Will it work?”

Daryl looked up at the hayloft again, a good fifteen feet off the ground. “It can prob’ly make that jump, if it gets a runnin’ start,” he warned.

“Will it work?” Maggie repeated, and Daryl finally looked at her.

“Yeah, it’ll work,” he said.

“Good,” Maggie replied, smiling now to show him they were still friends- he seemed so strangely fragile despite his toughness, so skittish, and she found herself wanting him to like her, to learn how to relax around her, like he was some injured animal she’d found in the woods and brought home to patch up. She dared to reach out, to touch him- just on the arm, a light brush of her fingers against his skin- and he pulled away but didn’t recoil like she’d burned him, and she counted that as a win.

“C’mon, then,” she said. “We got work to do.”


	15. moonrise, iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to have this monster done by Christmas, but it's fighting me on that- division of chapters is going to be a bitch later on. Also, I did not actually realize it was, y'know, November. Oops.
> 
> There's a bit more blood'n'gore in this one- and the next, but that's next week- than normal. Still not as much as you'll find on either show, but still, be warned.

_June 19th, 5.39 p.m.  
The Greene farm_

“No,” Rick said, very simply.

“Told ya,” Daryl said, and Rick turned to look at him, surprised by the childish tone and words. Maggie stood next to the hunter, currently giving him the stink-eye.

“But it will work,” she said, turning back to Rick, who in turn looked back into the old barn.

“You sure about that?” he asked, squinting into the darkness of the barn. It looked rickety, unstable- not someplace he’d want to have a standoff with a werewolf. Not someplace he’d want to be trapped when a werewolf came calling, either.

“Daryl said it would,” Maggie said, and Rick looked back at them again, this time raising his eyebrows and looking at Daryl, silently asking for an explanation. The hunter shrugged one shoulder.

“Told her it’d work,” he said. “I didn’t say it was a good plan.”

“What’d Hershel have to say about this?” Rick asked.

“Haven’t asked him yet,” Daryl replied, looking to Maggie, like Rick needed confirmation on who the ringleader was here. Daryl would never suggest a plan that put someone in danger like this- but he might go along with it if someone else did.

“I’m not asking him,” Maggie said, and Rick turned to her. “I’m not asking you. I don’t need anyone’s permission. It might not be a _good_ plan, but at least I have one. You guys have three hours- you come up with anything better, I’ll be glad to hear it. Until then, this is the best we’ve got.”

“She ain’t wrong,” Daryl said after a long silence, and while it wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic display of support, Maggie took it as such, lifting her chin and smiling. Rick sighed and scraped his hand over his face, looked back into the barn again. The afternoon light, weak and cloud-strained as it was, shone through the cracks and knotholes in the wood, the boards weathered and warped and pulling away from each other, dust motes floating through the air. It looked old and rustic, the sort of barn that photographers loved to take black-and-white pictures of.

Rick looked over at Daryl again, and the hunter gave him a single nod- he honestly thought they could do it, he wasn’t putting on an act for Maggie’s sake.

“A’right,” Rick said with a sigh, and Maggie looked excited for a moment- but only a moment, until she remembered what she’d just won. “But you’re tellin’ your father,” Rick added, nodding to her, and she nodded back, grim understanding on her face.

They all turned and headed back to the house, Rick looking over his shoulder to study the barn, and so he didn’t see that Daryl was stopping until he’d run into the hunter. He rocked back a step, starting to circle around him- then froze, just as Daryl and Maggie had, at the sight of Hershel on the porch. The older man turned and headed inside as they watched, his back rigid and his shoulders set, and it couldn’t be clearer that he had guessed at what they had planned.

“Shit,” Daryl muttered, a perfect summarization of all their thoughts, and Maggie moved ahead, turning to face the two men.

“I’ll deal with him,” she said. “You two should stay out here, out of his way for a while. He’ll cool off.” She turned and jogged up to the house, and Rick watched her go, watched her dart through the door and listened to it click shut behind her. Then he turned and paced a few steps away from Daryl, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

Finally he turned back and said, “Last night you told me about Hattiesburg.”

Daryl visibly bristled, staring at Rick out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah?” he said defensively.

“Tell me another one,” Rick said, almost begging. “Tell me about one time when you won. I know you have bad days, tell me ‘bout one of the good ones.”

Somehow, this made Daryl tense up even more. He stared at Rick a good bit longer, like he was waiting for a punch line for a joke that was at his expense. Then he looked away, suddenly squirmy, and for a moment Rick felt bad about prying into a past that had obviously scarred him in more ways than one- but he needed this, they both needed this, they needed to remember they could _win_. Daryl dwelt on his failures without remembering his successes, and Rick needed him out of that headspace and back in the game.

“Saved a priest from a witch, once,” Daryl said finally. He paused, considering, then suddenly pointed just above his left elbow, to the faint spiderweb scar Rick had noticed there weeks ago. “Vampire,” he said. “Was feedin’ on party girls in Corpus Christi. When we found him, he had a couple strung up in his lair, was gonna turn ‘em. We got ‘em out.” He traced one finger over the pattern of the scar tissue thoughtfully, almost fondly. “Got one here, mostly faded now,” and he touched his hand to his right side, fingers spread out, “got bit by a kelpie, fuckin’ water horse. Dumb thing’s a Scottish monster, ain’t even s’posed to be in America. Was a bitch tryin’ to figure out how to kill it. Saved a bunch of kids, though- ‘s what they eat.”

Rick allowed himself a small smile, watching as the hunter came alive, recounting tales of his past successes. He had never even considered- he had seen the scars on Daryl’s back, saw that they were inflicted by a human hand, and had assumed that he was ashamed of all of them, when the truth was that he took pride in a good number of them, used them as tally marks of a sort. He suffered so that others wouldn’t have to, and had the scars to remember his victories by.

Then Daryl touched his right shoulder, and there were no scars there, just a half-healed cut, the one he’d gotten that night in Rick’s house. “Saved a couple of kids ‘n their father,” he said, not looking at Rick. “I have good days.”

Rick fumbled with his words, trying to say- something. He didn't know what. Finally he said, “You think we can do this?”

You think _I_ can do this, he was asking, because it was one thing to be out there hunting for a werewolf, another thing entirely to be the only thing standing between a monster and a young woman, where one mistake meant a fate worse than death for her. He was still so new to this game, and he suddenly felt it, felt like he was fresh from the academy again.

“Yeah,” Daryl said easily. “We gotta. We’re in too far to back out now.”

It wasn’t reassuring, but it was honest, and in some way, that was better. Rick nodded and turned away again, resting his hand on the butt of his Colt, sliding it out of its holster and testing its heft, as if to see if he could feel the difference of the silver bullets. Daryl watched him, eyes narrowed in contemplation.

“You bring regular bullets?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rick said- he’d had no idea what he was walking into, has no idea what was going to happen come nightfall- he’d come prepared.

“Don’t use the silver ‘less you absolutely have to,” Daryl said. “Mine can be reused, yours can’t. An’ if you do shoot it, it’s gotta be the heart. Otherwise it’ll shake it off an’ get back up.”

“Anythin’ else?” Rick asked.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Don’t get bit.”

Rick glanced at him at that, but Daryl was already moving away, head down. Rick let him go, turned out to face the land and breathe it in, the muggy air and the heavy grey sky and the fields alive with springing grasshoppers and crickets chirping happily away- it was a good day, one of those days that made him glad to be alive, and it might be his last ever.

It was a good day. Tomorrow would be a good one, too.

\-----

It was open warfare in the house for a while, voices at time raised in yells and other times lowered to sinister silence. Daryl stayed out of it, sitting on the porch around the side of the house, and wasn’t surprised when Rick joined him after risking life and limb to go inside and change into something better suited to hunting than his deputy’s uniform. The cop eased himself down onto the porch with a tired sigh, and something in the way he moved, the tired-old-man caution, made Daryl look at him.

“You good for this?” he asked, and Rick looked over at him.

“I am,” he said. “Are you?”

“Ain’t gonna handcuff you to anythin’, if that’s what you mean,” Daryl said, quietly, testing the waters- Rick huffed a laugh and looked away, and Daryl risked a smile in return.

“It wasn’t,” Rick said. “But that’s good to know.”

Then there were footsteps on the porch- light and heavy alternating, one long stride and one short, had to be Glenn- and sure enough, the kid came around the corner, his hands loaded down with two overflowing plates, each pants pocket pulled down by a water bottle. Rick was on his feet and helping him in seconds, moving with an easy grace he hadn’t had a minute ago.

“Here,” Glenn said, holding the plate Rick hadn’t taken from him down to Daryl. “Supper.” 

It was a light meal, a sandwich made of chunks of chicken on homemade bread so soft it was falling apart even as it was picked up, and a messy scoop of potato salad. Rick sat down again and stared at his plate like he didn’t know what to do with it, and Glenn sat down as well, back to the porch railing so he was facing the two hunters.

“ ‘M not hungry,” Rick said, almost apologetically, and Daryl- pulling the sandwich apart and so he could eat the chicken and too-soft slices of bread separately- snorted and shook his head.

“When’s the last time you ate anythin’?” he asked, and Rick didn’t answer, just picked up the fork lying across his plate and started picking at the potato salad.

“I wanted to talk to you guys,” Glenn said.

Daryl tossed a piece of chicken into his mouth, rolled one of the slices of bread over and peeled the crust off in one long, connected strip. “Maggie?” he asked around his mouthful of chicken.

“Yeah,” Glenn said with a nod. He sat forward, pinning Daryl especially with a heavy glare. “You guys seriously can’t come up with a plan that doesn’t involve using her as werewolf bait?”

“It was her plan, Glenn,” Rick said.

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t _suck_ ,” Glenn said angrily.

“Ain’t our choice,” Daryl said. “She ain’t askin’, she’s doin’ it. We can’t not back her up.”

Glenn looked angrily back and forth between them, like he wanted to protest, wanted to fight- then he sagged suddenly. “This is such bullshit,” he said. “What did we do to deserve this?”

Daryl had heard that before, so many times, so many different ways. There was no easy answer- _nothing, sometimes life just sucks more than normal and gives you werewolves instead of lemons_ \- nothing that would reassure the kid. He unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and took a swig, carefully saying nothing.

“It should be me doing it, anyways,” Glenn continued. “I mean, it only wants to kill me.”

“You can’t run,” Daryl pointed out, kicking one foot out and nudging his toes against Glenn’s still-bandaged leg.

“I shouldn’t need to,” the kid pointed out. “Not if you’re doing your job.”

“Gonna risk your life on that?” Daryl countered. “Shit happens.”

“Yeah, that’s reassuring,” Glenn muttered sourly.

“Take a stick, a big one,” Daryl said. “Wrap a towel or somethin’ ‘round the end, pour some kerosene on it. Give it to Maggie ‘fore she goes out tonight.”

“A torch,” Glenn said, lifting his head again to look at Daryl.

“Werewolves don’t like fire,” the hunter replied calmly, and Glenn nodded and bit at his lip thoughtfully, leaning his head back against the railing again.

Rick set down his plate- completely empty, Daryl noted with a smirk, he must’ve inhaled the food, so much for _not hungry_ \- down beside him and sighed. He looked out at the barn, then looked back at Glenn.

“We’ll take care of her,” he promised quietly. “No one’s dyin’ or getting bit tonight.”

“Yeah,” Glenn agreed, pushing himself gracelessly up to his feet. “Good luck,” he said, and limped away.

“Happy huntin’,” Daryl said, mostly by rote- Merle said that every time, right before they went out to kill something, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it, stupid as it sounded. Rick glanced at him but said nothing, and Daryl looked away, focusing on his food.

“You, too,” Rick said finally, and there was nothing more to be said.

\-----

After that, sunset came almost too quickly.

Daryl stood on the lawn and watched in silence as the clouds turned orange, then red, then purple. He said nothing as Maggie came down to stand beside him, standing too close for his own comfort- he didn’t move, he knew this wasn’t about him.

“It’s cloudy,” she said inanely. “Can’t see the moon.”

He looked at her, then over her head, over to the west where the moon had already risen hours ago. “Won’t make a difference,” he said, not trying to be unkind, just honest. “Might slow down the transformation, but it’s still comin’.”

Maggie nodded and bit at her lower lip for a moment. “It just seems so stupid,” she said finally. “All this, for what? He’s the one who broke it off, and it wasn’t even that serious.”

Daryl didn’t answer that one, as there was no answer to give- no way to fathom how a werewolf’s mind worked. He looked back instead, at the sound of footsteps on the grass behind them, watched as Rick approached. He came to a stop on Maggie’s other side, the two men framing her for a moment- then, as the purple shifted to something darker, he turned to her.

“You ready?” he asked simply, and Maggie lifted her chin and nodded.

They had turned on all the lights in the house, leaving it ablaze like a boat on the night sea. Glenn and Hershel stood waiting for them on the porch.

“Here,” Glenn said, shoving a pair of flashlights at Daryl and Rick. “They work pretty good, if you shine it in its eyes,” he told them as Daryl slipped his flashlight into his pocket- he couldn’t hold a light with one hand and shoot with the other, like Rick could. Then Glenn picked up something else, a stick with fabric knotted at one end- the torch Daryl had recommended. Glenn held it and a box of matches out to Maggie, who took them gravely. “Just in case,” the kid said.

“Matches won’t be good, takes two hands to light ‘em,” Daryl said. “Ain’t you got a lighter?”

“I don’t smoke,” Glenn said, and Daryl snorted and dug his hand into his pocket.

“I do,” he said, handing his lighter over, and Maggie traded them for the matches with a quick grin. She wrapped one arm around Glenn’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, then let him go and ducked around him to her hug her father. Then she stepped back and looked to her escort, waiting patient and grim.

“All right,” she said, and stepped down off the porch and marched towards the barn. Daryl spared one last glance for the two men on the porch, then followed after her, swinging out wide so as not to cross her trail. He watched the land as he walked- the night had come alive, singing with crickets and frogs and early-summer cicadas, all competing with the groans and snorts of the cattle in their field- there was nowhere to put them all, so they just had to hope for the best. The shadows had melted and spread, covering the land in darkness, the last hints of sunlight eaten by the clouds, wet-earth scent heavy on the air- it would rain before the night was through, and Daryl didn’t know if that would help them or not. The western horizon was a pale blue now, the rest of the sky ash-grey, hanging oppressively close, and the trees bordering the barn were cast into darkness, black as pitch.

Maggie stopped a few steps shy of the barn, her hand shaking on the torch. She looked from Daryl to Rick, who said in a low tone, “Last chance to change your mind.”

“No,” Maggie said. “I’m all right.” She stepped forward, into the barn, moved into the darkness inside and pushed the door shut behind her. The two hunters waited outside until there was a creak, a crack of wood, then the sound of something clattering to the ground. “The ladder’s down,” she called, and Daryl looked across to Rick one final time- if either of them had something to say, something meaningful or reassuring, now would be the time to say it.

Rick met his gaze, dipped his chin- Daryl nodded back, then turned and headed away, circling around to the west side of the barn and pressing himself back against the wall. The wolf would hopefully approach from the house and not see the two hunters waiting around either side of the barn, but even if it spotted them, it had no good angle to sneak up on them from. Daryl slung his crossbow up and settled against the wall.

And thus began the hardest part of hunting- waiting for something to happen.

The minutes ticked steadily away, blurring into one hour, then another- Maggie started to play with the lighter at one point, snapping it open and shut again, until Rick hissed something at her that Daryl couldn’t catch, and she stopped. Then there was silence, stillness, except for how there really wasn’t.

Daryl, as the professional hunter, had taken the side of the barn closer to the forest- the tree line was barely fifteen feet away from him, and the trees were alive, the leaves whispering in the breeze, the shadows shifting and moving. He knew better than to trust his eyes- he saw things in the darkness, movement, light reflected- things that weren’t there, courtesy of a bored mind and eyes trying to make sense of the darkness. Eventually, though, he found his gaze constantly drifting back to one particular shadow, a patch of stillness in a subtle ocean of movement. He pulled his crossbow up slowly, inching it up his body, switching his hands into their proper positions to hold and fire it, aiming it down at the ground and slowly, achingly slowly, swinging it up-

There were footsteps, fast and light across the grass, and Daryl froze. A moment later, the barn door creaked as it swung open, and Daryl looked back- the shadow was gone, just his eyes playing tricks on him after all- then he moved quickly, quietly. He came around the corner of the barn and stopped, pressed up against the front wall just shy of the doorway, Rick on the other side of the doorway, his gun drawn. He pointed at Daryl, then into the barn, and Daryl nodded and stepped away from the barn, out into the open, moved forward until he was in the doorway, crossbow up and aimed at the figure within.

The air shattered with a howl, deep and loud and close, far too close- _behind_ \- and Daryl instinctively flinched and reeled around. He too late, wheeled back around just in time to see it, the snarling rush of fang and claw as the werewolf came out of the barn and plowed right into him, slamming him off his feet and onto the turf, hot breath above him- 

-and then there was a thunderous roar of a gunshot and it was _gone_ , thrown off him by the momentum of the close-range bullet. Daryl gasped for air and rolled his head, watching the wolf spring to its feet and dart away into the darkness.

Then Rick was over him, grabbing his hand and hauling him up. “You bit?” he demanded, his voice harsh and tight, and Daryl slapped away the hand checking him over.

“I’m good,” he said.

“The hell was that?” Rick asked, taking his word for it, and Daryl looked out into the tree line.

“The other one’s here,” he said, and Rick swore and brought his gun up, looking past Daryl into the darkness.

“What’s going on?” Maggie called down, and a wolf howled again, farther away this time, although there was no way to know which one it was. 

Footsteps in the grass again, a tall dark figure silhouetted against the light of the house, blurring past them and around the side of the barn. Wood creaked and groaned and cracked, splintering under unexpected weight, and it took Daryl a moment to figure it out. Then he swore and ducked away, spinning past Rick and after the werewolf, around the barn.

“ ‘S climbin’ the wall!” he yelled as he ran, even as Rick shouted his name. He darted around to the back of the barn, crossbow up, and there it was, already at the window to the hayloft and he couldn’t get a clean shot at it, not from this angle. He pointed center-mass and gritted his teeth- have to hope for the best-

The Colt roared again, and the werewolf’s head snapped back, blood and brain matter spraying back in an arc- Rick had gone inside the barn and shot it through the window. The wolf fell, body rag-doll limp as its brain put itself back together, landed with a sickening _thump_ at Daryl’s feet. Daryl stepped forward, face twisting into a sneer as he pushed his crossbow down against the wolf’s chest, directly over its heart- its yellow eyes snapped open and it snarled and squirmed, but it was uncoordinated, its limbs flopping like dying fish.

Then Daryl pulled the trigger, and it stopped moving altogether.

“Daryl!” Rick yelled, and Daryl backed off from the dead wolf, no time to retrieve his arrow- he looked up and around, peering into the darkness around him- the other one was near, older and cannier and a far better hunter. He could hear it, its feet whispering over the grass- it didn’t make a beeline for him, but instead circled around him, pressing in closer with each arc- he slid one hand into his pocket and dropped his bow’s nose to the ground, pulled the string back one-handed and snatched the second arrow out of the quiver, and the arc became a straight line as the second werewolf charged right at him.

He flicked the flashlight on with feet to spare, the light splashing violently across the werewolf’s face. It howled and lashed out, slapping the light out of Daryl’s hand- he rolled with the hit, letting the force of it knock him away. The flashlight landed in the grass and shone uselessly on the back wall of the barn and Daryl left it and scrambled away, around the corner-

-and plowed right into something, a warm body with hands that caught at him. He tried to push away, tried to bring his crossbow up, but the hands held on, pulled him in closer so he had less room to maneuver, and then the words began to filter in.

“-just me, Daryl, calm down,” Rick said, his voice low and soothing, and Daryl relaxed instantly.

“You didn’t say there were two of them,” Maggie said from behind Rick- he must’ve stopped to help her down in the same moments Daryl was doing his little tango with the second wolf. She pushed in close until they were huddled together, the house and its bright lights suddenly so far away.

The wolf howled again, close, its footsteps rushing by- the wind had shifted while they’d waited, a breath of cold air, a warning splatter of wetness on his cheek- the rain would favor the wolf, Daryl knew, and they would all three die out here, feet away from the safety of the house, if they didn’t get their shit together _right now_. 

“Light the torch,” Rick said, and Maggie scrambled to do so while Daryl aimed into the darkness, trying to follow the sound. He listened to the lighter click and not catch once, twice, three times- then he turned on his heel, holding his crossbow out to Rick. He took the lighter from Maggie and lit it on the first try- steady hands and fifteen years of smoking- holding it up to the kerosene-soaked rags on the end, and the fire billowed up into the night, sudden and bright.

The wolf snarled and sprinted away, retreating from the circle of firelight. Maggie whipped the torch around, nearly hitting Rick in the shoulder with it, then whipped it the other direction when the wolf brushed by going another way. It was trying to confuse them, scare them, split them up, and it was working. Daryl snatched his crossbow back and turned away, putting his back against Rick’s, reaching down and grabbing hold of the man’s belt to keep him in place. Rick glanced over at him, saw his intention and reached out to Maggie, reeling her in and locking her into place as the third point of their triangle, back to back to back, all sides covered.

“Easy,” Rick said calmly, soothingly. Daryl let go of him and pointed his crossbow into the darkness, finger light on the trigger. The wolf snarled again, rushing by even closer than before, but they were safe now, covered from all angles by fire or silver or both.

“You didn’t say there were two of them,” Maggie said, but she was calmer now, sounding almost civilly polite with a deep undercurrent of pissed off.

“How d’you think Randall got turned?” Daryl countered.

“Quiet,” Rick hissed, and they both fell silent, waiting on him. Daryl had no idea how the leadership thing kept falling on him, but it suited him well. He was steady and calm, anchoring the other two around him, scared civilian and professional hunter alike.

Daryl started a little when a hand touched his waist. He looked down as Rick hooked his fingers into the hunter’s belt, hanging onto him, then looked up again, meeting the cop’s gaze head-on. He nodded- he was good, no matter what Rick had planned- and Rick nodded back and looked away.

“We didn’t plan on this, we’re not ready for this- we’re not dealin’ with this tonight. We’re gonna head up to the house, and we’re gonna stick together.” Rick said quietly, and the hand on Daryl’s belt tightened, pulling him in half an inch closer to Rick until they were pressed together from shoulder to hip. “Ready?” he asked, and when neither of them said anything, he took that as agreement and moved.

Rick had turned them around so Daryl had the hard part, walking in a diagonal line backwards and to the side, tripping over his own feet at the odd angle and following blind where Rick led him. He kept his crossbow up- if the werewolf was going to come at them, this angle would be best, away from the blazing light of the house and Maggie’s torch.

There was a thump, footsteps on wood, and they stopped- Daryl twisted around to look between Rick and Maggie and caught sight of a speed-blurred silhouette on the porch, sliding past the lit-up windows and darting around the corner where the porch wrapped around the house.

“Is it going inside?” Maggie asked, her voice scared but not panicky, rigidly controlled, and Rick hesitated- he didn’t know the answer to that.

“Nah,” Daryl said, turning back and settling into his place again. “Inside’s no good. Too much light, not enough room to move. ‘S tryin’ to scare us away from the house, is all.”

Maggie leaned into him a moment, bracing herself against him. Then she took a deep breath and straightened up, and they moved again.

He had his back to the house, and so didn’t notice how close they were getting until his heel hit the first porch stair and he staggered. Rick shifted his grip off his belt and spread his hand over Daryl’s side, bracing him, gun up to cover them as Daryl faltered. There was a whirling noise, the torch blurring by over their heads as Maggie turned, and Rick caught Daryl by the back of his shirt and bodily hauled him up the stairs backwards, pressing him back against the house.

The screen door creaked open an inch. “What’s going on?” Glenn hissed quietly, and Rick looked past Daryl and nodded to Maggie. She slid sideways until she was at the door, then pushed it open and ducked inside.

“Go,” Rick said, pushing Daryl towards the door, and he went, ducking around Glenn- Hershel was standing on the other side of the doorway, rifle pointed steadily out into the night- and into the house, Rick on his heels. Glenn slammed the door shut behind him, fumbling with the lock, and Daryl didn’t bother pointing out that that would hardly stop the thing outside. 

“What happened?” Hershel asked, steady in the face of so much fear and adrenalin. He looked the three of them over briefly, catching at Daryl’s left wrist and studying his hand- torn and bloody from where the werewolf had smacked the flashlight away. Daryl pulled away and turned his hand over, trying to find the source of the blood, and looked up to see Rick staring at him, his jaw set tight and a muscle in his cheek twitching.

“I ain’t bit,” Daryl said. “Here-” and he took the one silver arrow he had left and pressed its tip against the outer curve of his left wrist and pushed it in until it drew blood, then pulled it away. Nothing happened, save for a new pain to add to the list.

“There’s another werewolf out there,” Maggie said. She was clutching the still-burning torch close so it wouldn’t burn anything.

“There’s two?” Glenn demanded in open dismay.

“Just one now,” Daryl said, all vicious satisfaction. He spared Rick a glance, a quick nod- couldn’t have done it without you- and Rick nodded back, still focused mostly on Daryl’s bloody hand.

Glenn started to say something else, then stopped at the sound of footsteps on the porch again, a snarl coming from outside. He grabbed Maggie’s hand, wove his fingers tight with hers, and pressed both of them closer between Rick and Daryl. For a moment, there was silence, broken by the patter of feet on wood outside, an occasional snort or snarl.

Then there was the soft creak of the screen door opening, and silence, the sort that rang loud with heartbeats and heavy breathing, expectation in the air. Rick strode forward and lifted his Colt, aiming it at the door at heart-level, patiently waiting- as if sensing his presence, the wolf on the other side snarled and ran, leapt off the porch and into the grass and darted away.

“If it wants in, it’ll get in.” Rick said calmly, turning back to the others, focusing mostly on Glenn. “Right now it’s just tryin’ to scare us.”

“Yeah?” Glenn said. “It’s succeeding.”

“If it’s that much of a concern,” Hershel said, “we can go down to the cellar. The door’s heavy, and there’s only one way in.”

“Go,” Daryl said instantly- he wasn’t willing to gamble any lives on this wolf’s behavior, not when it was behaving so unpredictably. Hershel nodded and led the two kids away, Rick grabbing the torch from Maggie as she passed by him. He headed into the kitchen and Daryl followed.

“You all right?” Rick asked quietly, putting the stopper in the sink drain and turning on the faucet.

“ ‘M fine,” Daryl said instantly. He felt like he’d been hit with a battering ram, and now that the adrenalin was receding he could feel the pain from his hand vividly, but all told, he was doing pretty well. He watched as Rick doused the torch in the sink, leaving the wood to soak in the water. For a moment, Rick just stood there, head down and hands braced on the sink. Then he took a deep breath and turned, eyes instantly going to Daryl’s hand before flicking up to meet his gaze.

“Is this what hunting is?” he asked plaintively. “Is it like this every time?”

“Pretty much,” Daryl said with a shrug. He glanced back as Glenn called for them, then looked back at Rick. “Hey. I ain’t bit, Maggie’s safe, the wolf’s dead. Today was a good day,” he said, and turned to head down to the cellar, Rick immediately behind him.

Today was a good day.


	16. rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up this morning and freaked out because I thought it was Wednesday and I'd missed update day. I hate holidays and short work weeks, they screw me up something fierce.
> 
> Anyways, this chapter features another wobbly bit of Supernatural canon- wards. This one I'm not sure of the rules on, mostly because they did a crap job of explaining them, so I'm fudging them a little bit too. If you have any questions, go watch the SPN episode Wendigo again- and marvel at the boys, weren't they cute little babies?

_June 20th, 6.25 a.m._

The rain had started a few minutes after they made it inside, drumming a steady beat on the house above them, a hot, thick rain that seeped into the cellar and left the air heavy with humidity. 

Hershel had dug up a first aid kit and Daryl had reluctantly allowed him to clean and bandage his hand, then retreated, sitting at the bottom of the stairs with his crossbow in his lap. Rick kept his distance, not sure he could trust himself if he got close to the other man- his mind kept replaying flashes of moments, the werewolf bursting out of the barn and slamming into Daryl, the wild, savage look in the hunter’s eyes when he’d run into Rick and fought him, the sheer terror of that moment Rick had seen the blood on his hand and had no idea where it was coming from, how it had gotten there, how bad the injury was-

This was becoming a serious problem, one Rick was going to have to deal with before he said or did something that tipped Daryl off about it. He needed to sort himself out, put some distance between them- figure out what the hell this even was, for him and Daryl both.

His phone chimed in his pocket, loud and sudden, and Rick near jumped out of his skin. He pulled it out and glanced at it, then up at Daryl.

“Dawn,” he said simply.

“Better give it another ten,” Daryl replied. “Just in case.”

“Is it over?” Glenn asked, stirred to speaking by the noise around him. “Is the other wolf gonna come after us now?”

“No,” Daryl said. “You’re good. It’s over.”

“Why was it here?” Maggie pressed. They’d been silent until now, respecting the laws- the wolf ruled the night, they didn’t, they were ghosts in the werewolf’s dark world- but now it was dawn, and they were reclaiming the land. “If it’s not after us, why come here?”

“It warned Randall,” Rick said. “Think it was lookin’ out for him?”

“Never seen it before, but that don’t mean no,” Daryl answered. “They ain’t really territorial, but they don’t work together neither.”

“That one turned Randall, though,” Rick pointed out. It was like a parent, in a way- and in that same way, Rick understood it, understood its need to protect its offspring. Daryl shook his head and looked away, unable to answer that.

A few minutes later, Rick stood, Daryl rising with him. “Stay here,” Rick told the other three, then followed Daryl up the stairs. They split up to switch off all the lights on the ground floor, dawn filtering grey and pale through the windows.

“Somethin’s wrong,” Daryl said quietly as they met up again at the front door. He looked at Rick, questioning, and Rick nodded- he could feel it, taste the tension in the air, and when Daryl opened the door he could smell it. He gagged on the scent, the rich coppery smell slapping him in the face, pressed his wrist against his mouth and turned away for a moment while he gathered himself. When he turned back, he found Daryl patiently waiting for him on the porch, moving away down the stairs once he was sure Rick was following.

The hunter looked out over the land with a dark look on his face. He turned away after a moment, heading for the barn, and Rick followed him around to the back- and there in the grass was the sprawled figure of a werewolf. It looked like some cosmic idea of a joke, Rick thought, arms too long and shoulders like a defensive linesman, face pushed up into a short, wolfish muzzle. It didn’t look like the dangerous predator it had been last night.

Part of its skull was still blown away, a ragged-edged crater over its left eye that had taken half of the top of its head off. Rick remembered the desperate shot- aiming at the silhouette framed neatly in the window, remembering Daryl’s advice of save the silver bullets and aim for the head, nothing on earth liked taking a bullet to the brain, taking the shot and watching the werewolf snap back and fall- and felt sick.

“I thought he’d change back,” he said quietly, hardly even aware he’d said it out loud until Daryl snorted.

“Hollywood bullshit,” he said, reaching down and pulling the arrow out of the werewolf’s- Randall’s- chest. He gave it a flick, sending cool, clotted blood splattering off its tip, then slotted it into the quiver and slung his bow back over his shoulder.

“We can’t let him be found like this,” Rick continued. He’d thought- god, he felt so stupid, so naïve and shortsighted, compared to Daryl’s tired, jaded wisdom- that they’d be able to drop the body off somewhere, let Randall’s family have some closure. His mother had been by the station twice already, demanding help in finding her son and being told both times that she couldn’t file a missing persons report until he’d been missing seventy-two hours- which would be this morning, Rick realized with a sickening wave of guilt. And now Randall would never- could never- be found.

Daryl was watching him silently, waiting for his reaction. Rick turned away, moved away, couldn’t be near that anymore. He stopped beside the barn and turned in to face it, pressing his face against the old wood and breathed in the blood-tainted air, turning away from the grisly sight behind him, and the grislier sight in front of him.

Every single animal that he could see- presumably every animal on the Greene property- had been torn apart, entrails strung about like party streamers, the rain washing their blood away to soak into the earth. The door to the stables had been ripped open, left to hang awkwardly off its bottommost hinge- even the chicken coop had been torn into, wire peeling up and away, feathers and fluffy down stuck to blood smears. If the animals had screamed, if they had fought back against their killer, they hadn’t been heard over the sound of the rain.

Werewolves were driven by human emotion, Daryl had said. Randall had been jealousy. This one felt an awful lot like rage.

“You go tell ‘em about this,” Daryl said quietly. “ ‘Fore they come out an’ see it themselves.”

“Where’re you going?” Rick asked, pushing himself away from the barn and turning to look at the hunter.

“Gonna deal with the body,” Daryl said, jerking his chin to indicate the old pickup truck sitting around the side of the house. “You don’t need to be there for that.”

It wasn’t condescending, wasn’t excusing or explaining- just simple acceptance, quiet support as Rick struggled, and he clung to it desperately, grateful for the lifeline. He nodded and looked away, back at the house, fixed his gaze on the front door and headed for it, not looking around, not looking back at Daryl.

This didn’t feel like a victory anymore.

\-----

_June 20th, 2.27 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Daryl went grocery shopping on his way home.

He’d come back from disposing of Randall’s body smelling of smoke and mud, tired and sore and shaking from spent adrenalin, and found Maggie waiting for him half a mile down the road. The police were swarming the Greene farm, and it was agreed between all involved parties that the further away from this mess Daryl and Rick remained, the better off everyone would be. Rick was long gone already, gone home to shower and change and report in, and Maggie had told Daryl to go on home as well, he could bring the truck back and pick up his bike when the fuss had died down.

She’d hugged him, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his neck, said her thanks and brushed tears off her cheek as she moved away, and the bitter taste from this morning had faded. Maggie Greene was worth far more than all the livestock on the Greene farm, and he had saved her. It had been worth it.

So he went grocery shopping, because it hardly seemed fair to expect Rick to live off of dry cereal and beef jerky, and who cared if it wiped out what was left of Daryl’s cash reserves. He was in the store for only a few moments before he realized that he had absolutely no idea what he was looking for. He and Rick had never managed to have a normal conversation so far, never talked about the things normal people talked about. He knew Rick Grimes could stare down a werewolf, loved his children enough to die for them without a second thought, knew how to pick handcuffs- he didn’t know how Rick took his coffee, what sports teams he followed, if he still read newspapers or had acknowledged the end of an era. Hell, he didn’t even know whether to get ham or turkey for sandwiches.

He got ham, in the end, because it was what he liked and Rick could just deal with it. He got bread, too, and eggs and milk, and plenty of beer, angry with himself and not understanding why- he didn’t understand what he was trying to do, why it was his problem that Grimes was feeling bad. He wanted to make Rick feel better, wanted to make him happy, and he didn’t know _why_ , and that scared almost as much as knowing he couldn’t- Daryl Dixon didn’t make people happy, he fucked up their lives, and saved them if they were lucky, and moved on. In the time that they had known each other, Rick had gotten attacked by a spirit, been forced to move out of his own house, lied to the sheriff and his ex-wife, sent his kids away, and spent a night trapped in a cellar with a werewolf outside, and at least half of those were directly Daryl’s fault.

He was at the checkout, trying to get the stupid fucking self-checkout machine to accept a twenty that had been run through the wash about three times, when his phone started ringing. He gave up and pressed the Help button on the checkout screen, then looked in suspicion at his phone- his former boss at Hatlin’s had already called twice to lecture him on responsibility and commitments and oh, by the way, you’re fired, and he wasn’t interested in a round three. But the number was unfamiliar, Atlanta area code, and he answered it warily.

“Yeah?” he said, handing over the twenty to the cashier who had come over to answer the Help button. She wrinkled her nose at the state of it but accepted it, heading back over to her register to exchange it for a crisper bill.

“Daryl?” came the immediate reply, a young voice, panicky. “Is my dad okay?”

“Carl?” Daryl asked, momentarily thrown- he didn’t remember giving the kid his number.

“Is my dad okay?” Carl demanded.

“He’s fine,” Daryl said. “Not a scratch on him.” Well, not technically- there was a lovely bruise on his left temple from being hit in the face with the butt of a crossbow two nights ago, and the skin on his wrist was still pretty raw from the handcuffs, but no scratches.

Carl made a noise of pure relief. “Mom has the news on,” he said, his voice still shaking a little, “and it said there was another murder, and a bunch of cows got killed last night, and Dad wasn’t answering his phone-”

“ ‘S all right,” Daryl said. “Told you I’d keep him safe, didn’t I?”

Carl was too old to believe in fairy-tale-promises anymore- he had known, as Daryl had, that there was only so much Daryl could do to protect Rick, to keep him safe. But all the kid had was Daryl’s word.

“Yeah,” Carl muttered, sounding tired now, like maybe he hadn’t slept last night and had been cruising on fear and adrenalin up until this point. Daryl fed the new twenty into the machine and stepped back as it chewed on it, finally spitting out a receipt and a few singles in change.

“Want me to kick his ass for not answerin’?” he offered, and Carl actually laughed, weak and pale though it was.

“No,” he said. “I just… when can I come back? I really hate it here.”

“Ask your parents,” Daryl said, shoving the change into his pocket and juggling his phone around, pinning it between his ear and his shoulder so he could pick up the plastic bags. “How’d you get my number, anyway?”

“I got it off Dad’s phone right before Mom picked us up,” Carl said, and he was getting that stubborn tone in his voice, the one Daryl remembered from their most recent talks. “I want to come back,” he insisted.

Daryl stepped out into the humid, heavy heat of a Georgia summer in full swing. “You keep sayin’ that like you think it’ll make a difference,” he said mildly. He was effectively trapped into the conversation until he could put one of the bags down.

“Dad listens to you,” Carl said, and Daryl couldn’t help but snort at that. Rick listened to Daryl when he wanted to, and overrode him when he didn’t. “He does,” Carl insisted. “If you ask him-”

“Ain’t puttin’ myself in the middle of a family thing,” Daryl interrupted. “You ask him.”

There was a brief, frosty silence over the line- Carl had inherited more than just his blue eyes from his daddy, he’d inherited that cold anger as well- but Daryl was Carl’s lifeline to Ashlyn and his father, and he wasn’t about to sever it. Finally, he sighed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _whatever_. “Can you at least tell me when?” he said plaintively.

Daryl had reached the truck, and faced a brief struggle of figuring out how to put the bags down without dropping his phone. His left hand was starting to ache, the plastic handle laying over one of the cuts and putting pressure on it. “When what?” he grunted, starting to get annoyed.

“When it’ll be safe for me to come back,” Carl said, and Daryl knew better, he really did- but he’d been having a bad day, and he was in pain, and he hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, and it just came out.

“Full moon’s on Sunday,” he said. “Monday’s safe.”

“Great,” Carl replied. “Thanks, Daryl.” And with that, he hung up.

Daryl put the beer down hard and caught his phone as it started to fall, frowned down at the Call Ended screen blinking at him. He was never going to understand kids. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, unlocked the truck and loaded the bags onto the passenger’s seat, then sighed. He didn’t want a kid running around his house, which meant getting Rick’s house back, which meant dealing with the spirit. And if Rick was in a bad mood now, then Daryl didn’t want to think of how he’d be when faced with the second death of his best friend.

He slammed the passenger door shut and circled around the nose of the truck, jangling the keys in his hand. He could handle it alone- Rick probably wouldn’t like it, but he could, and the cop wouldn’t even have to know about it until it was done. Except-

Except Rick had called them _partners_ \- had caught Daryl when he stumbled and saved his life when he had a werewolf sitting on his chest- and that wasn’t what partners did.

He got in, started the truck up, and headed home.

\-----

_June 20th, 7.48 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Rick was at the door, house key in hand, when he finally remembered that that wasn’t going to work. He tested the door hopefully- locked, not surprising considering the average danger level in the life of a hunter- and sighed, slumping against the doorframe and rubbing his hand over his face.

The door rattled, then opened, and Rick straightened up not quite fast enough for it to go unnoticed. Daryl, thankfully, just stepped aside to let him in and closed the door after him.

“Bad day?” he asked, following Rick into the kitchen. 

“Randall Moore’s mother came in to file a missing person’s report this mornin’,” Rick said, and Daryl said nothing, just turned away. Rick moved over to the table and sat down with a tired sigh- then opened his eyes again and lifted his head as something heavy thumped on the table. 

It was a glass bottle, the liquid inside the rich caramel color of well-aged whisky, the label peeling and torn and the print on it too faded to read. Rick looked up to Daryl, who was holding out a glass; he took it with a vague murmur that could’ve been a thank you and reached for the bottle.

The whisky burned like soothing fire, a heat that spread warm and honey-thick through his chest and belly. He poured himself a little bit more, then pushed the bottle away, out of his reach.

“Will they ever find him?” he asked, lifting his eyes to Daryl, sitting across the table from him now. The hunter didn’t answer, just took the whisky and poured himself some, and it was a pointless question anyway- Daryl wasn’t stupid, he’d have assumed that they’d find the body eventually and would have taken measures to prevent their noticing its… _condition_. Rick had no idea where he’d taken the body, how long he’d been gone, and thinking about it unsettled him- he didn’t want to think of Daryl as somebody who knew how to dispose of a body, didn’t want to think about why or how he had gained that knowledge.

Finally Daryl said, quietly, “Gave him a hunter’s funeral. Burned him,” he explained when Rick frowned. “ ‘S what we do when a hunter dies.”

It wasn’t much, but it was as much as Randall could have asked for- and there was something in those words, a sense of honor, of integrity- he hadn’t just burned the body, he’d given a werewolf the same consideration he would give a fellow hunter. It made Rick feel better to know that Randall wasn’t just written off as a monster, not even by the hunter who’d put him down.

“What ‘bout the farm?” Daryl asked. “How’s Maggie an’ them?”

“Fine,” Rick said. “One of the neighbors heard the howling, so they’ve got the police thinking it was an animal.” He paused a moment, considering the irony of him referring to _the police_ as if it was some separate entity he was not affiliated to, that he had to work around and against to accomplish his goals. Like a proper hunter, he thought wryly, and felt a twist of sympathy for Daryl- being on this side of it wasn’t much more fun than being on the other side. “Some of the cattle broke through one of the fences, wound up on a neighbor’s land, and there’re still two horses unaccounted for, so it didn’t get all of ‘em,” he said, and it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough- but Hershel had pulled him aside to thank him again when he’d come in to the station to give his statement, and Rick knew it was enough for him. “They’ve cleared out for now, moved off the farm ‘til they can get it cleaned up little.” And until the werewolf menace was dealt with for once and for all, but he didn’t say that.

“An’ the murder?” Daryl asked. “Couldn’t help noticin’ no one came to ask me my alibi for the other night. Didn’t think the sheriff’d give up on me so easy.”

“In light of last night’s events, they are reconsidering the possibility of the killer being an animal,” Rick said with a sneer, reciting the sheriff almost word-for-word. He finished off the last of his whisky and eyed the bottle, still safely out of his reach. “There’ll be a press conference ‘bout it soon, or whatever passes for one in a town this size.”

Her name was Marian Crawford- the woman who’d died. Rick almost told Daryl, almost told him a thousand times, but he bit his tongue each time. Daryl didn’t need another name to add to his internal list of failures.

“Your kid called,” Daryl said abruptly. “Said he tried to call you an’ you didn’t answer. Got a little worried.”

Rick had his phone out before Daryl had finished speaking, and he swore when the screen lit up. Eleven missed calls, nine texts- _a little worried_ , his ass- but they all stopped at around two thirty, probably about the time he’d thought to call Daryl instead.

“He’s still on it ‘bout comin’ back here,” Daryl added, and Rick sighed.

“I’ll call him back later,” he said, putting his phone down- maybe it made him a bad father, but he wanted a drama-free evening, and having to deal with Carl getting stubborn wasn’t going to do it. He looked at the clock on the screen before it went dark and glanced up at Daryl. “I take it we aren’t doing anythin’ about that other werewolf tonight.”

“Like what?” Daryl asked. “Drivin’ around town, hopin’ we run across it? With Randall, we knew what it was, what was drivin’ it. This one, we got nothin’.”

“So we just let it go?” Rick asked.

“Won’t be the first time,” Daryl said simply. “Gotta be lucky, more’n anythin’ else, to catch a wolf like this.”

“We gotta figure out what it wants,” Rick pressed. “You said it’s here for somethin’.”

“If that had anythin’ to do with Randall, it ain’t got reason to stick around,” Daryl pointed out. 

“Except to get revenge,” Rick said, and Daryl didn’t answer- both of them were thinking of the dead animals, the slaughtered horses and cows- no reason to do any of that, save out of furious vengeance, and it wasn’t enough, couldn’t be enough- the horses hadn’t blown off the top of Randall’s head, the cows hadn’t put a silver bolt through his heart. They’d just been _there_.

Daryl was the one who made the kill, the one the werewolf had gotten a good look at, the one whose blood the wolf had drawn. If it was coming after them, it was coming after _him_ , in truth, because he was the one it knew. And that- that wasn’t allowed. Ever. Not while Rick drew breath.

“Should we be worried?” Rick asked carefully.

Daryl looked up at him, studying him through the hair falling into his eyes. “You think I’d live someplace a werewolf can just stroll right on in?” he replied. “The whole damn house is warded so much I’m surprised it don’t glow in the dark.”

“Warded?” Rick echoed, and Daryl jerked his head in a _come with me_ gesture and stood. He led Rick through the living room and opened the front door.

“There,” he said, tracing his fingers along the doorjamb. Rick couldn’t see anything at first, but Daryl gestured again, and he reached out to touch it and felt fine lines cut deep into the wood. He crouched down, putting himself on eye-level with the one he was touching, and could just barely make it out- an arcane figure of lines and what looked almost like words from a long-forgotten language. He stood up again, tracing his eyes over the jamb- and as he looked, he started seeing them, a neat little column of arcane symbols marching right up the doorframe.

“They’re on every door an’ window,” Daryl said. “Pretty sure she got ‘em onto the foundation, too.”

“Is this magic?” Rick asked, a little bit amazed- screw that, a lot amazed. It had never even occurred to him to wonder- he knew of monsters and spirits, but those were dark things that stalked the night, a nightmare world he had entered into. He’d never even considered that there might be magic here too.

“Not really,” Daryl said with a shrug. “More like a magnifier, like the lens in a telescope.” He touched the wards again, almost fondly, then nudged Rick back so he could step inside and close the door again.

Say what he would, it sounded like magic to Rick, and some part of him was giddily, childishly excited at the prospect. There was magic in the world, and he had no doubt there was the bad kind as well as the good- had no doubt it was used to hurt and kill a lot more than it was used to protect and save, because people were just that way- but still, _magic_.

“Wait, who’s she?” Rick asked as he followed Daryl back into the kitchen.

“Michonne,” Daryl said. “She’s a friend, another hunter. She owns this house, an’ she let me stay here when Merle…” He didn’t finish, just made a vague gesture that could mean anything.

It felt like too much, too soon, like he was poking at a wound that had only just started to heal, so Rick let it go at that. Michonne- Daryl had some friends from his old life, it seemed, and as much as he’d claimed to have gotten out of it, he didn’t seem to have gone very far away from it at all. It was all he knew, and he clung to it like a child with a security blanket.

“I have to call Carl,” Rick said, offering Daryl a socially acceptable escape, and the hunter nodded and turned away. 

Rick picked up his phone and was about to push Call when a voice from the doorway, quiet and subdued, said, “Hey.” He turned back to see Daryl not quite looking at him, gaze flinching away from making eye contact. “You were right, ‘bout Merle,” he said.

“Right how?” Rick asked gently when Daryl didn’t say anything for a minute.

“He was a shitty partner,” Daryl said. “Some hunters don’t care about helpin’ people, they just like killin’ shit,” he continued, scuffing a hand over the back of his neck. “You gotta be careful of them, in case they stop seein’ the difference between human and monster. Sometimes a hunter can become somethin’ worse than anythin’ they hunt.” He looked Rick in the eye now, didn’t flinch away from it. “Merle was one of the ones that liked killing,” he said. “I never really trusted him. I couldn’t. I knew he’d always have my back, but he was dangerous to everyone else, includin’ himself.”

It was what Rick had figured- hero and psychopath, martyr and killer, and all those thin lines between- hunting sounded like a job for those who had no use for authority and a burning need to make a difference in the world in the bloodiest way possible. Some hunters didn’t care about helping people, and those were probably the ones that managed to last the longest.

“I’m not Merle,” he said simply, the only thing he could think of to say, and Daryl shrugged and looked away and scratched at his chin.

“I know,” he said, and ducked away, out of the kitchen and into the living room. It was small- it wasn’t an apology or an admission of guilt or even an acknowledgment that he’d been wrong- but it was huge, in its own way. Merle was more than Daryl’s former partner, he was Daryl’s _brother_ , and Rick had seen enough of Daryl to know how tightly he clung to the very few things he could call _his_.

He didn’t think Daryl planned on coming back down- that seemed to be his MO, open up a little and then retreat for the night- so Rick leaned across the table, scooping up his glass and the bottle of whisky. It was a bad idea to drink more- but there was some part of him that just said _screw it_ and tilted the bottle in his hand, pouring a healthy amount into the glass.

It was good whisky. Be a shame to let any of it go to waste.

\-----

The stairs dipped and rolled gently under his feet, like a boat safe in the harbor- Rick wasn’t drunk, per se, but between talking to Carl and the considering and assimilating of yet another traumatic part of Daryl’s past, he’d finished off a glass and a half more of that whisky than he’d planned. It was becoming something of a habit, one he was going to regret in the morning.

The guest room smelled of dust and a faint hint of baby powder, from Judith’s brief stay there, and Rick’s heart twisted unpleasantly in his chest. He missed her, missed both his kids, with a fierce passion, and right now there was no werewolf to distract him, no people to protect- nothing but him and just enough whisky to make him maudlin, and a hunter who was done talking to him for the night. 

Rick rubbed his hand over his face and sighed against his wrist, then started to undo the buttons on his shirt, watching blearily as his fingers fumbled on autopilot through the task- then he stopped, ice running through his veins and sobering him instantly. He thought he’d heard-

It came again, a muffled thump, a low whine like a dog in pain. Daryl.

It was probably just a nightmare- he’d had one every time he slept, since Rick had moved in- but up until now, they’d been suffered in silence. Rick hesitated, staring at the bedroom doorway, considering. Daryl would hardly appreciate being woken up, Rick knew him well enough to know that, but it wasn’t in Rick’s nature to stand by and do nothing- and then Daryl whined again, and it was decided. Rick ducked out into the hallway, flicking the light on and pushing the door to Daryl’s bedroom open slowly until the light fanned out over the room, illuminating the bottom half of the bed. The hunter was tucked into a small ball under the sheet he was using as a blanket, curled up tight and small to protect himself, and Rick’s heart twisted at the sight.

“Daryl,” he said quietly as he moved into the room, careful, cautious- he’d seen the man asleep before, but it felt different now, an intrusion, Daryl so vulnerable and defenseless, trapped in his nightmare.

“No,” the hunter murmured, pressing his face into the pillows, “no, no, no…” It was a child’s voice, scared and small, and it had Rick across the room before he even knew it, reaching out to touch Daryl’s shoulder to wake him up- it had worked last time- but last time wasn’t this time.

The hunter recoiled from Rick’s touch like he’d been burned, gasping awake with a violent start, eyes wide and wild and dark- he saw Rick standing over him and reacted, bone-deep instinct rising to the fore. His left hand shot out, grabbing for something on his night stand- Rick saw the hall light catch on it out of the corner of his eye, saw the sharp edge and the wicked little curve at the tip- he threw himself back as the knife swung out, cutting the air with a whisper. He tripped over something, staggered half a step, and had just righted himself when something hit him in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground, a weight settling on his chest and a thin line of cold fire lying across his neck.

“Daryl-” he gasped out, but the hunter wasn’t listening- was beyond listening- his eyes wild and fearful, not yet awake or aware. Rick forced himself to relax, every muscle uncoiling, going pliant under the hunter’s weight- fighting now would only get him killed.

Instead, he looked up at the man sitting on his chest- a study in black and white in the darkness, his night-black hair hanging in his face and plastered wetly to his skin by sweat, stray strands across his cheeks and forehead looking like foundation cracks spreading through his stone mask. The hand holding the knife to Rick’s throat was shaking- Daryl as a whole was shaking, and listing slightly to the left, and Rick dared to reach up and put his hands on the other man’s hips.

“It’s all right, Daryl, it’s just me,” he said quietly, slowly. It wasn’t the words that would reach the hunter, it was the voice, the tone. “You’re safe, nothing’s happening, just-” He cut himself off, lifting his chin and holding his breath as the knife pushed down. He desperately needed to swallow but didn’t dare, could already feel the skin splitting open under the sharp edge of the blade.

Then the knife was gone and the weight on his chest rocked back, and he could breathe again, so he lifted his head to look. Daryl’s gaze was still wide and wild, but with a different sort of fear this time.

“Rick?” he said, and it was still in that child’s voice. The shaking was worse now, his face gone a waxy grey like he was maybe going to be sick, and Rick tightened his hold on the hunter’s hips, anchoring him in place, grounding him in the moment. Daryl had gone to sleep in his clothes, his shirt twisting up and the jeans riding down his hips- Rick’s hands were mostly on bare skin, his thumbs resting against the hollows of Daryl’s hipbones, and he instinctively pressed down, rubbing in a gentle circle, soothing and calm.

“It’s just me,” he said again- he’d woken up from his fair share of nightmares, knew how things filtered in so slowly- never anything so bad that he’d gone for a weapon, but then, his world hadn’t included things as terrifying as werewolves before a week ago. He could remember the feel of Lori curled around him, anchoring him, whispering a lullaby against his hair.

Daryl was still halfway there, stuck in that nightmare world, still wide-eyed and scared, still holding onto the knife in a ready position even if he was no longer holding it against Rick’s throat- it was instinct to reach up, to cup one hand around his cheek, to smooth one thumb over the hunter’s cheekbone and tangle his fingertips into sweaty hair. If he were bolder, braver, maybe drunker- if he had the room to move, the leverage to push himself up- he would pull Daryl down and brace his forehead against the hunter’s, stare into his eyes and anchor him until their breathing matched and Daryl was back in this world.

And maybe some of that showed in his eyes, on his face, because Daryl leaned into him, turning his face to press against Rick’s hand-

Then his eyes snapped open again and he jerked away, staring down at Rick with ice in his pale eyes.

“How much of that whisky did you drink?” he asked flatly, steely self-control ironing all emotion out of his voice, Rick’s fingers curling uselessly in the air beside his face. And maybe Rick was a little drunk- loose-limbed and stumbling, his words softer at the edges and blurring together a bit more than normal- but he wasn’t _impaired_ , he knew when his thinking was off. He was fine.

But Daryl didn’t know that. All he knew was the alcohol smell, the slight flush on Rick’s cheeks- the long, damning hesitation before the answer. Something cold and dark knifed through his expression and he rolled back, pushing himself up to his feet.

“Daryl-” Rick began, pushing himself up- couldn’t let him walk away, couldn’t let him think whatever it was he was thinking that had his shutting down so thoroughly- but the hunter stepped around him, heading to the bathroom.

“Go to bed, Rick,” he said over his shoulder, sounding very tired, and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Rick sat on the floor of the bedroom, feeling suddenly cold and bereft, feeling stupid- like being back in high school again, not sure if Lori _liked him_ liked him, and waffling over it for hours while Shane groaned and bitched. Then he pushed himself up, staring at the bathroom door for a long few moments before he headed out of the bedroom.

That had been something, something important, something huge- and somehow, he’d blown it.

_Fuck_.


	17. past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No time to chat today, kiddies, I'm already late out the door. just wanted to post this before I went since I don't know what time I'll be back. Also, regarding this chapter's little bombshell (s?)- please don't kill me.

_June 21st, 7.02 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

 

The pickup was old and cranky, full of odd rattles and wheezes and a hair-raising whine whenever the brakes were put on too fast- but when Daryl spotted a familiar pickup in the gas station lot, he still whipped the truck around, fast and tight. He pulled up to the pump and climbed out, eyes narrowed against the too-bright morning sunlight, circled around the truck to start pumping gas, then slid his hands in his pockets and turned again, staring out at the pickup.

Joe stared back, a sharp smile echoing on his lips, and fuck- _fuck_ \- Daryl didn’t like the jackass, but he knew where he stood with him. And Joe was a fellow hunter, and deserved a head’s up if nothing else.

“The hell’ve you been?” he asked, and Joe quirked a smile and strolled over.

“Hunting werewolves,” he said amiably, once he was close enough that they wouldn’t be yelling across the lot about werewolves and killing people and all other sorts of worrying things. “You?”

“Same,” Daryl said. “Actually got one, night ‘fore last.” He spared Joe another glance. The man truly did look like he’d been out hunting- his hair was frazzled and unwashed, his eyes red with lack of sleep and baggy with exhaustion, his shirt left untucked and pulled haphazardly down to cover the gun on his hip, that general hunter’s air of not giving a fuck settled and familiar around him.

“Would that be the Moore kid who’s gone missing?” Joe countered, and Daryl bit his lip and dipped his head in a quick nod, gaze turned away. Rick hadn’t been the only one unhappy to have it end that way- but Daryl had come out here, needing to be moving and doing something, to get away from the cop, not to think about him some more. “Yet here you are, at ass o’clock in the morning,” Joe mused thoughtfully. “Something go wrong?”

“There’s another wolf,” Daryl said, pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking up at the older man. “ ‘S older, smarter. It was huntin’ me when I was huntin’ the younger one.” He caught himself before he could say _us_ , tailored his words a little. Joe didn’t need to know about Rick, not now, not ever.

Joe murmured something very unkind about the werewolf’s mother and raked a hand through his hair, turning away to face away from the morning sun- for that moment, he looked very old. “I really hate the smart ones,” he said tiredly, then turned back to regard Daryl again. “I’ve been chasing rumors of what’s probably your older wolf, just outside of town.”

_Just outside of town_ probably meant up towards the mountains, and if Daryl had been leery of chasing a baby wolf into a half-grown field, there were no words for how stupid taking on the older wolf in the middle of a forest would be. He grunted and scrubbed a hand over his face, shifting away.

Let it go, something inside him whispered- just forget it, let it go, let someone else handle it- he still had a ghost problem to take care of, then a neighbor problem to deal with, and that one would probably call for more tact and social grace than Daryl was capable of, and he had too many things on his plate right now to be dealing with it. Let Joe handle the wolf. Daryl had to get his house in order.

“You ever reconsider my offer?” Joe asked, shaking Daryl out of his haze, and for a moment Daryl stared blankly at the older man. “Stupid for either of us to hunt a werewolf alone,” Joe pointed out. “Especially if it’s as smart as you say.”

Daryl looked past him, squinting up at the sun, then beyond the gas station to the tree line- he thought of hands on his hips, thumbs a steady pressure on his skin, a hand on his face- that heavy, steady _want_ smothered under the ice-cold splash of reality when he smelled the whisky in the air and realized.

Rick Grimes was a lot of things- every time Daryl thought he had it figured out, the rules seemed to change, the lines that defined the man blurred and redrawn. But whatever else he was, he was a family man, and Daryl Dixon was poison to that sort of stability. Whatever drunken thoughts Rick had been thinking last night, he would undoubtedly regret them in the bright light of day. And even if he didn’t, he definitely didn’t need Daryl’s influence in his life. He hadn’t meant anything by that- _couldn’t_ have meant anything by that- and even if he had, well. Daryl’s job was to protect civilians.

The gas pump had clunked off, loudly, several long minutes ago. He pushed off the truck and circled around it, squeezing the handle a few times to milk the last little bit of gas from the hose, then lifted the nozzle and put it back on its brace. He fiddled with the tank cap for a moment, then pushed it shut with a sharp snap and came back around the truck.

“Got a pen an’ paper?” he asked, and when Joe produced a small notebook from the glove compartment of his pickup, Daryl scrawled his phone number on the lined paper and pushed it back at him. “Lemme know if anythin’ comes up,” he said, ducking his head, looking pointedly away from the older man. “I got a ghost to deal with, and…” He paused for a moment, dragging that shadowy notion out of the corner of his mind where it had been lurking- he’d been considering it for days, but last night had been the breaking point- brushed it off and polished it off a little, considering it from all angles, plotting and planning.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it, but it was what needed to be done, and hunters were very good at doing things they didn’t like.

“And?” Joe prompted, tearing the paper with Daryl’s number from the notebook and folding it gently in half to tuck into his pocket.

“And I’m thinkin’ it’s time for me to move on,” Daryl finished slowly, dragging each word out, clawing at his throat, tearing at his heart. “Shouldn’t’ve stayed here this long anyway. Soon as this werewolf shit’s dealt with, I’m leavin’ Ashlyn.”

Joe wisely said nothing, just looked down at the little notebook in his hands, folding it shut with carefully precise movements. He moved away, giving Daryl space, heading back over to his own truck.

“I don’t want another partner,” Daryl said, loud and stubborn, feeling the need to reinforce that, and looked up to meet Joe’s startled gaze. He didn’t know what was on his face, didn’t want to guess, but the older man shrugged one shoulder and nodded in acquiescence.

“I’ll let you know when I get something worth sharing,” he said, and Daryl nodded and jerkily turned away, angry with himself, hating himself, hating the world.

He’d get the truck out to the Greene farm and pick up his bike, head back home and sort out that spirit shit once and for all and get Rick the hell out of his house, and maybe then he’d be up to thinking more clearly. He’d need money if he was going to survive on the road for any length of time, and he had precious little now, but he’d worry about that when he came to it. He’d made do with less before.

The moon was set, the sun dominating the sky with its early-morning brightness. Daryl scowled at it and kicked irritably at the cracking concrete of the station lot and swore at the stupid credit card reader that was buzzing unhappily at him and pointedly ignored the sound of the engine starting up behind him, and tried to feel less like the bottom had just fallen out of his world.

\-----

_June 21st, 4.42 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

The whisky bottle was sitting where he’d left it, stranded alone in the middle of the kitchen table. Rick stared at it, flat and unblinking, unhappy with its presence- a reminder of how badly he’d fucked up last night, how much he needed to talk to Daryl before this had time to set in and strain things between them.

Too late for that.

The cabinet above the dishwasher was dusty and empty, a nice whisky-bottle-shaped hole in the dust on the shelf, and Rick put the bottle into its place and closed the cabinet door firmly behind it. He hesitated a moment, memorizing the wood grain pattern on the cabinet door, then looked over his shoulder.

“You’re back,” he said, unable to keep the faint hints of challenge out of his tone, and Daryl shifted away from the doorframe he’d been leaning against and dared a few steps into the kitchen. He’d left precisely at dawn- Rick knew, he’d still been awake then and for a few hours after, trying to wait until the hunter came back to fall asleep and not quite managing it. He had to call Lori, he had to check in on work- he had a million things to do, but instead he’d slept until three and took a forty-minute shower and traded a long series of fumbling, clumsily typed texts with Carl, who apparently found it much easier to speak to his father in mediums that didn’t include actual talking.

“ ‘S my place,” Daryl said, and something in his tone made Rick look over his shoulder at the other man. Daryl’s face was caught between expressions, torn between emotions- his mouth opened, the words clearly on the tip of his tongue. Then he looked away, recoiled completely, whatever he’d been about to say lost in the dead air between them.

That he was here at all was either a good sign, or a really, really bad one. Daryl’s response to anything getting too close to him was to retreat from it until he’d decided how to deal with it, or enough time had passed that they could pick up and carry on as if nothing had happened. For him to be here now, with things still so unsettled between them- he had made a decision, Rick knew. Either it was going to be business as usual, or… not.

“Been followin’ up leads on that other wolf,” Daryl continued, which was a fairly strong argument for _business as usual_ , and Rick didn’t know whether he was relieved or not. “Dead ends and rumors, mostly.”

I thought we were partners, Rick wanted to say to that, but bit back the urge and reminded himself to be nice. He’d scared Daryl off last night, of course the man would retreat into his job. And he’d left at dawn, so he’d been in no real danger- at least, not from the werewolf.

“Mostly? Anythin’ good?” he asked instead, and Daryl shrugged one shoulder and fished his cell phone out of his pocket, checking it quickly.

“Got another hunter in town keepin’ an eye out,” he said. “Told me he’d let me know.”

Another hunter? Rick considered this, something chill and fierce wrapping itself around his heart, choking on the urge to go out and- _go out and what?_ he asked himself. Tell the other hunter to back off, that this wasn’t his hunt? Was he really feeling _territorial_ here?

Then something else sparked off in the back of his mind, a moment of memory and a sudden realization, that glorious _ah-ha_ moment as an entire encounter that had made no sense suddenly became clear.

“Guy named Joe Catton?” he asked, and Daryl looked up at him, pale eyes sharp and keen. “Met him a couple weeks ago,” Rick explained. “Said he’d heard you had a civilian for a partner, and wanted to check it out. He told me to stay away from you.” He smirked at the memory- Joe hadn’t been wrong, he’d just been a bit ahead of the curve.

“Fuckin’ _asshole_ ,” Daryl muttered, irritated but resigned, and it warmed the icy grip on Rick’s heart to hear it. Joe wasn’t a friend, he was tolerated- and that only barely, from the sounds of it. The man could push in on their hunt all he wanted, he wasn’t a threat to their partnership. “Said he’s been trackin’ the wolf just outside town,” Daryl added, sparing Rick another glance, this one warning, restraining. “I ain’t chasin’ that thing through the woods, an’ neither are you.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” Rick said, the tension easing out of his frame, out of the air between them. He couldn’t leave what happened last night lie between them like that, so much water under the bridge- festering and infected between them, much as they chose to ignore it- but for now, he’d let it go. It was too new, too raw, and they had too many other things to worry about. “So what now?”

“Now we do somethin’ ‘bout that damn ghost livin’ in your garage,” Daryl said, and as firm as his words were, his entire body language read tentative, ready to bolt at the first sign of poor reception on Rick’s part. Rick froze for a moment before he forced himself to relax again, turning to face the hunter properly and leaning back against the counter.

“What do we do?” he asked quietly, rubbing his thumb in a broad sweep across his forehead, pushing a few stray curls out of his eyes. “How did you kill something already dead?”

Daryl hesitated, the wary silence of a man who had wandered into a verbal minefield, taking each tentative step with the utmost care. Finally he shrugged again, awkward and tense. “You sever its physical connection to this world,” he said, the words carefully chosen, sounding like they were lifted straight out of a manual or something. Rick looked at him, waiting a better explanation, and Daryl sighed helplessly. “Burn its bones.”

“Burn its bones?” Rick echoed. Shane had been dead ten months- three hundred and eight days, give or take a handful of hours. There weren’t going to be _bones_ , there would be a proper _corpse_ -

Rick’s mind stuttered over the thought, over the image some sadistic corner of his brain helpfully provided, and he gagged on the sudden nausea rising in his throat. He fumbled with a cabinet door for a moment, pushed it open and pulled out a glass, moved over to the sink and turned the faucet on and washed away the acid bile with a cupful of water.

“I can do it myself, I don’t need you,” Daryl said behind him, not unkindly, just awkwardly sympathetic. “Better if you’re not there, really. It ain’t angry with me.”

It. Well, Rick supposed, if you were going to be burning bones that were once people- putting silver-tipped arrows through still-beating hearts and dragging their bodies out to the woods and burning them with a smell like barbecue on the wind- if you were going to be doing things like that, being able to compartmentalize would be a necessary survival trait. Not him, not them. _It_.

He gave Randall a hunter’s funeral, Rick reminded himself, wrenching himself back from that dark edge. Maye it was harder for him, maybe he was selective about it- but Daryl Dixon had held onto his humanity, and respected it in others.

“He would’ve been buried in Atlanta,” Rick said distantly, hearing his own words as though they were echoing in a tunnel. He pushed himself up, away from the sink, forced himself back into the moment, into reality. Composure restored- or at least sufficiently faked- he turned to face the hunter. “I can’t say what graveyard. I didn’t go to the funeral.”

“An’ he followed you here,” Daryl agreed, eyeing Rick grimly. “The hell happened with you two?”

“He slept with my wife,” Rick said, flat and emotionless, uncaring, unconcerned- Daryl, in direct contrast, went wide-eyed and pale, physically jerking with realization.

“Shit,” he said, then, “ _shit_. The kid- Judith-”

For a moment Rick tensed- he’d put up with so many sly comments and knowing glances, back in Atlanta, he wasn’t going to deal with that here- but then he kicked his brain into gear and tried to follow where Daryl was leading him. He somehow doubted the hunter gave a rat’s ass about Judith’s parentage, and he was looking scared with a heavy dose of dawning understanding, not falsely sympathetic and slyly cruel. “You think he’s after Judith?” Rick asked, feeling a different sort of anger settle into him- that was _his_ daughter, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about parentage either, and no one was hurting her- but the hunter was already shaking his head.

“Spirits are made when someone dies angry,” he said. “It ain’t got reason to be mad at her. You, though…” He shook his head. “If he died thinkin’ you took somethin’ that was his, it’d be enough.”

“Like Randall,” Rick realized, words slow as he puzzled it out. “Focused on one emotion, and driven by it.”

“Yeah, but spirits are worse’n werewolves,” Daryl said. “Werewolves are still alive. Spirits ain’t. They’re-” he shook his head, frustrated, unable to find the words. “They’re _stuck_. Living things breathe, and move, and change. Spirits just get angrier.”

Rick remembered, suddenly, vividly, the conversation they’d had after their first failed attempt at catching Randall- the night Rick had been left handcuffed to his own car- barely three days ago now, for all it felt an eternity. _That one’s a baby spirit_ , Daryl’s voice echoed in his head. _it don’t know jack. The old ones, though…_ \- and that helpless, distantly terrified look in the hunter’s eyes as he stared down the long road of memory. Old spirits scared him.

“You said it wasn’t Shane anymore,” he said.

“It ain’t,” the hunter agreed grimly. “It’s just his anger, wearin’ his face. You can’t talk to ‘em, can’t reason with ‘em. There’s nothin’ left but anger.”

“And the angrier they are, the stronger they are,” Rick finished. He turned away with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. Well, shit. He didn’t know if it would matter- there wasn’t exactly an accurate meter for emotional reaction, no predictive one-to-ten scale of how angry something was bound to make somebody- but he couldn’t risk letting Daryl go up against that thing without knowing the whole story, not if it made a difference in the strength of the spirit he would be facing.

Daryl had told him about Hattiesburg, had admitted that he was worried his brother would become a monster. Rick could give him some small piece of his own soul in return.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, glancing up at the hunter again. “He didn’t just-” he faltered for a moment, grabbed his courage with both hands and pressed on. “He didn’t just sleep with Lori. It’s more personal than that.”

Daryl said nothing, just gave a nod when Rick looked at him. Giving him the time, the space, to sort things out, to fit things into a coherent story- the room to gouge his own heart out and leave it lying bloody on the ground between them.

“We moved to Atlanta when I was twelve,” Rick said. “My first day of school, I was-” he shook his head, unable to explain it, unable to describe the white-tiled halls and the dingy classrooms, the tired teachers and the surging sea of his fellow students, looking less like any school he’d ever seen before and more like a juvenile prison. Scared didn’t even begin to cover what he’d felt, that first day. “I met Shane, that day, and he took me under his wing. Instant best friends.” He allowed himself a tiny smile, fond of the memories- what had come later had soured them, but for that moment he could forget that, could focus on Shane as he was, long-limbed and clumsy in his growing body, every movement echoing with the grace and power he would eventually grow into. “By the time seventh grade started, I had a huge crush on him.”

Daryl made a noise, maybe. Quiet as it was, Rick might’ve just imagined it, although he didn’t imagine the sudden shifting of the hunter’s weight, the recoil and ripple of tension across his frame- Rick watched it all out of the corner of his eye, keenly aware of every tiny twitch. Daryl hadn’t gutted him for what he’d clearly misinterpreted as drunken groping last night, so he obviously wasn’t violently opposed to the idea- but it was one thing to be drunk and handsy late at night, another thing entirely to slap the man in the face with the harsh cold fact of Rick’s bisexuality.

Rick leaned back against the counter, hands wrapped white-knuckle tight around the edge. He’d never told anyone this next part, not even Lori- but if spirits were created by anger, this was the root of Shane’s. “He had to know,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t good at keepin’ that sort of thing to myself, not then.” Not now, either, not really- not if the knowing smiles Maggie had kept giving him the night of Randall’s death was any indication- but apparently Daryl was even worse at picking up on such things. “But he never said anythin’, and I figured he just didn’t want to hurt me.” Impossible for him not to- Shane played the field, flirting and dating and stealing kisses in crowded hallways and empty classrooms- he hit on everything female and even vaguely attractive with an almost desperate air.

Hindsight was a bitch.

“Our junior year, we went to a party after Homecoming,” he continued. “We both got pretty plastered, but he was a lot worse than me.”

“Shit,” Daryl muttered, his first word in several minutes, clearly understanding exactly where the story was headed, and Rick barked out a short, sharp, humorless laugh.

“Yeah, he ditched his date to make out with me in the backseat of his car,” he agreed flatly, looking up again, watching carefully- but Daryl didn’t so much as bat an eye, just waited with tense expectation, listening to the story with the expression of a man watching the shit hit the fan. “I didn’t remember,” Rick continued, sounding- feeling- gutted, long-bottled emotions spilling out of him. “I honestly didn’t remember. I was blackout drunk, I hardly even remembered makin’ out with someone, never mind who- and he didn’t tell me.” Why the _hell_ didn’t he tell me, he wanted to yell, to beg, like Daryl was keeping that secret from him. Why the hell Shane would keep that from him, Rick still didn’t know.

Silence. The hunter was still just waiting. Rick scraped his hand through his hair and rallied himself, scraping together his focus, forming his thoughts back into a straight line.

“Anyway, a couple weeks later, I met Lori, and it was just…” He made a gesture, as of two magnets snapping together. “Love at first sight was too mild a term for it,” he said wryly.

“An’ Shane got left behind,” Daryl finished for him, and Rick steeled himself, stopping the flinch.

“He was my best friend,” he said quietly, well aware he was talking to a man who had probably never had any friends, let alone a best friend. “And I _didn’t know_. He didn’t tell me, how was I s’posed to _know_?” He pushed off of the counter, pacing across the kitchen, spinning on his heel and pacing back, coming to a stop by the sink again, his back to the hunter. “Everythin’ was different after that,” he said tiredly, brokenly. “I thought it was just ‘cause of Lori, but…” He shook his head, remembering the carefully hidden venom in Shane’s eyes sometimes, the vicious twist in his words- the competitiveness in everything they did together suddenly taking a deadly sharp edge- Shane had done nothing, said nothing, to make it immediately apparent the fundamental nature of their friendship had changed, but there had been times when Rick had seen glimpses of something unfriendly in those dark eyes, and wondered.

A moment later he turned back, facing Daryl again. “We never had a great marriage, Lori’n me,” he said, admitting it easily enough, now that all was said and done and laid bare before Daryl. “I don’t know why, but as good as we were together, the whole marriage thing never quite worked for us. We were fallin’ apart long before-” he choked on an urge to laugh again, dark and semi-hysterical. “An’ then- the date Shane ditched on Homecoming? I met her again, at a PTA Christmas party, year before last. She remembered that night, told me about how Shane ditched her to go with me. She thought it was funny.” He shook his head a little. “Took me a while to figure out what she was talkin’ about. But when I did…”

He was silent then, for a moment too long- Daryl shifted a bit, arms coming up to fold over his chest. “How the hell’s he go from crushin’ on you to sleepin’ with your wife?” he asked.

“I tried to talk to him about it, about that night,” Rick said with a too-casual shrug. “It got ugly. We both said a lot of shit we shouldn’t have.” He’d been loaded for a fight anyways, coming fresh from an argument with Lori- and Shane had never learned how to keep a clear head, never learned not to let his temper do his thinking. It was easier to get mad than admit to weakness or making mistakes, and Rick’s own legendary cool had already been fractured. “A few days later, he apologized, told me it was nothin’, we were just kids screwin’ around.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Revenge,” he said finally. “He went from crushin’ on me to sleepin’ with my wife for revenge, ‘cause that’s the kind of dumbass stunts he pulled.”

And Lori hadn’t known, because Rick hadn’t felt their marriage would survive the blow of her learning about his history with Shane. He hadn’t told her, and he couldn’t say one way or the other if he had been a fool. She wouldn’t have done it if she’d known, he knew that- she’d been lonely and desperate, tired of icy silences and fiery arguments, and had reached out to someone she knew and trusted. But Shane had intended to hurt Rick, and no matter how bad a shape their marriage was in, Lori never would’ve been party to that.

“Next May, Lori’s tellin’ me she’s pregnant, and by the way, she’s been sleepin’ with my best friend,” Rick finished with a sigh. “I got the captain to reassign Shane and me as partners, and Lori and I gave up on tryin’ to make it work and started the whole divorce process.”

“Shit,” Daryl said again, calm and succinct, and Rick wanted to laugh.

“It was _stupid_ ,” he said, tone twisted and full of venom, hand aching to curl into a fist and hit something. He’d punched Shane, once- nearly got his jaw broke when Shane rolled right back up like one of those fucking clown balloons that wouldn’t stay down and returned the favor- and clearly it hadn’t been enough. “Stupid reason to destroy everything.”

And Shane had _lingered_ , that was the thing- even death hadn’t stopped his hatred. He’d come back to kill Rick because just destroying Rick’s marriage hadn’t been enough, and Rick had no idea what he’d done to the man, how things could have gone so sour between them over one night of drunken teenage fumbling. He hadn’t set out to destroy Shane’s world when it had become apparent- or Shane had made it seem as if- Rick’s crush on his best friend wasn’t mutual.

“You said he’s buried in Atlanta,” Daryl said quietly. “Think you can figure out where? I can head there tomorrow.”

“You’re not doin’ that alone,” Rick began.

“You ain’t goin’ with,” Daryl cut across him. “You wanna be a hunter, you gotta keep a clear head, and this time, you _can’t_.”

Rick stared at him for a moment, gearing up for a fight- then let it all out of him in a rush of air. “I don’t know where,” he said, deflating, moving away. “I’d have to look it up.” Daryl was right- clear heads had kept them alive the night of Randall’s death, and he wasn’t going to gamble Daryl’s life on Rick’s ability to keep his shit together when Shane’s ghost was attacking them.

“I’ll look it up, I know how to find it,” Daryl said. He gave a dismissive wave to Rick, already heading over to the kitchen table and the laptop sitting there. “Go take a shower or somethin’, you need it.”

Rick snorted at the order and headed past the hunter to go upstairs. He would feel better after a shower, and maybe something to eat. He felt better already, just by getting all that off his chest. No one had known, no one had been safe to tell- the implosion of his marriage, the destruction of his friendship, had been a mystery to everyone, even Lori.

He grabbed a towel out of the linen closet and headed into the bathroom, the same room Daryl had barricaded himself in only last night, after things had gone to hell so spectacularly. The hunter had come back, had listened to his story, had refrained from judging him, and had moved right on to business- maybe, just maybe, things were starting to improve between them, going from the shaky ground of partners-barely-friends to something firmer.

For the first time all day, Rick let himself smile.


	18. burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, kiddies, getting on towards crunch time. I don't know how the updating schedule's going to be after this- next week should be fine, but I might end up posting on Wednesday, because of a relatives-in-town situation. I like posting regularly and would feel very guilty if I don't, so if I do end up delayed, it's because I'm busy being a snarky, ungrateful bitch to my family, and couldn't get away without committing a felony.
> 
> The action picks up again soon, too, so look forward to that.

_June 21st, 5.32 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

“Shit,” Daryl muttered, because, well, _shit_.

_\- Officer Walsh was cremated on Thursday, August 16, 2012-_.

Daryl picked up the pen he’d been planning to write the graveyard and plot number down with, rolled it along his fingers and clicked mindlessly at the end. Cremated, a hunter’s most and least favorite word- cremated bodies generally produced no spirits, no matter how unrestful the dead, but it also meant that when a spirit was made, it was a bitch finding its tether to the living world. Anything that had its blood on it, its hair, even just a strong enough emotional connection, could act as an anchor.

On the other hand, this would certainly explain why it was here in Ashlyn, lurking in Rick’s garage- not that it had an insanely long leash, but whatever was anchoring it was here, in Rick’s house.

Daryl looked up from the laptop, looked out the window to the house next door. He couldn’t imagine Rick dragging something with Shane’s blood out here, especially considering how things seemed to have ended between them, but that was a fairly respectable-sized mountain of boxes in his garage. He might not even realize what sort of metaphysical time bomb he’s got there.

The shower shut off abruptly, suddenly enough that the old pipes rattled and groaned in the walls in protest. Daryl spared the ceiling an irritated glance- Rick ought to know better than to treat these old houses so carelessly- then another, more thoughtful look at the sound of bare feet thumping hurriedly over the carpeted floor, soft muffled curses, the sound of a man dressing in a hurry-

A few moments later Rick burst into the kitchen and skidded to an eventual stop, his bare feet finding no traction on the tile. “Hatlin’s,” he said with the excited, distracted air of a man who’d had an epiphany and damn well was not letting it slip away from him.

“I don’t work there anymore,” Daryl said after an awkward pause, a touch thickly, his mouth operating on autopilot, his mind mostly stuck on the fact that Rick’s rush to get down here meant he hadn’t dried himself off from his shower at all. His button-up shirt- the buttons misaligned and half of them undone, allowing a tantalizing view of his sternum and glimpses of pale skin at his waist as he moved- was wet and clingy and getting wetter and clingier as water from his soaking-wet hair dripped onto his shoulders and down his back.

Rick hesitated, looking briefly at Daryl with a blank expression, like he was only just now noticing that Daryl wasn’t leaving to go to work every night, like he hadn’t realized that hunting and a night job might have conflicting schedules. A drop of water slid down the arch of one particularly long curl and fell, landing on the floor with a quietly audible _splat_ , and it took every ounce of Daryl’s self-control not to jerk in his chair like he’d been electrified at that little noise.

“It was at Hatlin’s last month,” Rick said in explanation, while Daryl stared unseeing at the tiny little splatter of water on the floor, doing his damndest to fight off the heat he could feel creeping up to stain his cheeks pink. “On the night of the _full moon_.”

For a moment, Daryl was too much the horny teenager to notice the emphasis on the words, to follow Rick’s train of thought through to the inevitable end. He shook his head, dropped his hand to click the pen endlessly against the table, trying to reason out what Rick was getting at without focusing on how his shirt was soaking wet in the back and plastered itself to the curve of Rick’s spine, close as a second skin. Then he shook his head and looked away, forcing himself to _think_ , dammit.

“It killed Ed ‘cause he was there,” he said slowly. Drunken idiot had gotten lost, put himself in the path of a hungry monster- but that wasn’t right, Daryl realized abruptly, the wolf had stuffed itself full of cow hearts earlier in the week. It hadn’t been hungry, just operating on instinct.

“It was at _Hatlin’s_ ,” Rick repeated, patient and slow for the moron in the room. “It could’ve been twenty miles into the forest- there’re plenty of places it could’ve gone around here- but it was half a mile from a bar.”

And a wolf that old and smart, one who could play games with hunters and cover its tracks, wouldn’t have made such an amateurish mistake, stranding itself so close to civilization on the one night when it had absolutely no control.

_It’s here for a reason_.

“It wanted at someone in the bar,” Daryl said, bringing the pen up to chew absently on it. Rick nodded and turned away, rubbing a hand over his face, looking like he was still trying to reason it out, like he’d had to spot-check himself against Daryl before letting the idea run its course. A moment later he turned back, face settled into grim lines.

“Maybe it was after the only hunter in town,” he said grimly, and it was ridiculous, there were so many holes in that theory- it had been half a mile away in the wrong direction, there had been a dozen people in that bar aside from Daryl who would all leave before him, the wolf could’ve come after him any time before or since and he wouldn’t have been able to protect himself since he wouldn’t have known what he was up against- but it sent a chill of certainty down Daryl’s spine. It had been at the Greene farm, standing in the tree line on Daryl’s side of the barn, watching him- he knew that now, knew it with the same instinctive certainty as he knew how to breathe, could feel the heavy weight of its gaze on him now as surely as if he was still back there in that night.

In the silence that had followed that statement, Daryl’s phone chirped with an incoming text alert. It was so foreign a sound that Daryl just stared at the thing, surprised and uncomprehending, until Rick crossed the room and picked it up. He read the text and rubbed his thumb over the screen, wiping away a drop of water from his hair, then tossed the phone back down.

“You can’t go,” he said simply, and that tone of finality stirred something in Daryl, kindling some small spark into a fire. He shifted, lifted his head and dropped the pen to the table and pushed the laptop aside.

“I ain’t the only hunter in town anymore,” he pointed out. “An’ something comin’ after us, ‘cause we know how to kill it- that’s nothin’ new.”

Rick set his jaw and looked pointedly at Daryl’s left hand, at the gauze still wrapped around his hand and over his wrist, at the gashes beneath- the wolf had already taken a run at him, Rick didn’t say, taken a run at him and gotten pretty damn close to killing him.

“You can’t go,” he said again instead, voice strained and tight, hands curling into fists. Daryl eyed him, considering.

“Can’t leave Joe out there by himself,” he said. “ ‘Specially if there’s a wolf huntin’ hunters.” _If_ , hah- it was after them now, he’d swear by it, but- “Not even sure it was after me then,” he said.

“It was at the bar,” Rick repeated, like Daryl had somehow missed that. “If it wasn’t there for you, what was it after?”

Daryl opened his mouth, hesitated, picked up his phone and glanced at the screen. “Three hours to sunset,” he said mildly, glancing up at the cop. “Wanna go find out?”

It was a stupid idea, but it was better than arguing, better than sitting there thinking about the close call that night, better than worrying in abstract about Joe. He’d have to text the man, tell him they were chasing another lead, and to keep his head down, that the hunters were becoming the hunted.

Rick hesitated for a moment, but only a moment- apparently going out three hours before sunset when a werewolf’s painted a target on your back is only okay if Rick Grimes goes with you. “I’ll get changed,” he said distractedly, and turned and headed out of the kitchen, already raking a hand through his hair to wring out the water. Daryl forced himself to look away, to not watch Rick leaved, turned his gaze to the side where it landed on the open laptop with Shane Walsh’s obit still pulled up.

Shit, they hadn’t even talked about that. Daryl sneered at it in agitation, then leaned forward and snapped the laptop shut. He’d add it to the list.

He needed see if he could find a high-powered flashlight somewhere, because Glenn had been right- those suckers working a treat on night-adjusted, sensitive werewolf eyes. He tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, the memory of a breath blowing sticky-hot over his face, claws flashing and tearing skin. In the bright, sunshine-soaked kitchen, Daryl paused for a moment, long enough to allow himself one good shudder.

Then he got up and went to go grab his crossbow.

\-----

“Thanks, Lambert,” Rick said, honestly grateful- they didn’t have time for him to swing by the station and check this out for himself. He didn’t bother looking up, just gave a small shake of his head, and Daryl, sitting in the passenger’s seat, grunted in acknowledgement. He wasn’t sitting properly again- Rick was starting to think he honestly didn’t know _how_ people were meant to sit- but at least he was only sprawled out in his standard broken-doll pose, not putting his feet up on the dash again, so if Rick got into an accident he wasn’t going to break his legs or crush his own rib cage. Little things.

“Sure thing,” Lambert Kendal said in his sleepy-slow voice, and Rick hesitated- Lambert was the sort who always said _bye_ before hanging up, and tended to look unfavorably on those who cut calls short without the social pleasantries, and Rick was in enough shit at the department right now without purposely alienating people. For a long moment, his fellow deputy maintained the silence- then he sighed, the sound blown-out and staticky over the phone line. “Is everything all right, Rick?” he asked.

Rick almost gave the standard, no-brain-involved reply- _yeah, everything’s fine, why do you ask?_ \- but bit his tongue before the words could come out. Why Lambert was asking was fairly obvious, and the pat statement was so clearly a lie, and Rick didn’t know how to say _sorry, can’t chat now, I’m hunting werewolves_ without waking up tomorrow in a rubber room.

“Not yet,” he said instead. “I’m working on it.”

Lambert made a faint noise of concern. “Work faster,” he advised. “You’re on thin ice around here.”

“Thanks,” Rick said again, and meant it more sincerely this time- he knew the other deputies were covering for him, and as much as he didn’t like the thought of them risking their jobs to cover his ass, he also knew _he_ wouldn’t have a job if they hadn’t.

Lambert made that noise again. “Well, good luck,” he said wryly, and tacked on a pleasant goodbye, barely waiting for Rick to return it before hanging up.

Daryl was chewing absently on his cuticle when Rick dropped his phone and glanced over at him, the hunter’s pale eyes focused out the window. “Nobody gone missin’ but Randall?” he asked, summarizing Rick’s conversation with Lambert easily.

“No,” Rick said, wrapping his hand around the steering wheel again, looking pointedly away from the other man. It had been easy, earlier, to forget what had happened so far today and the night before, the awkwardness and the stories told- but now, in the expectant silence of the car, nothing else to distract from any of it, Rick found himself almost holding his breath as he waited.

Finally the hunter stirred, pushing his shoulders back against the seat to lever himself up a little bit, straightening his spine up from his customary slouch. He spared Rick a quick glance, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as if he were almost even nervous.

“Shane wasn’t buried,” he said after a long pause, and Rick risked a quick stare, because that… was not what he’d been expecting.

“What?” he said inanely, having a brief, horrifying flash of a vision of Shane’s corpse still sitting somewhere in some morgue, rotting in one of those cooler drawers- would that make a spirit grumpier, he wondered, recalling Daryl saying something about disturbing graves pissing off previously slumbering spirits.

“He was cremated,” Daryl continued, thankfully unaware of whatever the hell it was running through Rick’s head at the moment. Rick glanced at him once, then again as he forcibly kicked his brain into gear.

“How’s that possible?” he demanded. “I thought you said burning their bones, what-” he cast his mind back, scrabbling for the exact words Daryl had used, alien-sounding as they had been. “Severed their connection to the physical world,” he said after a moment, reciting as near word-for-word as he could get.

“Somethin’ survived,” Daryl said. “Somethin’ with his blood on it, maybe, or maybe just somethin’ that meant a lot to him, gave it an emotional connection.” He paused, an oddly delicate-looking sneer on his face, disdain written over his features. “Those kinda spirits are damn powerful, though, an’ your boy’s just a run of the mill vengeful spirit.”

Rick bit back the urge to say something like _he’s not my boy_ , and for a moment the air crystallized between them, so much awkward potential in the space of a handful of seconds- _now_ , Rick thought, _this will be when he finally says something_ \- but Daryl kept his peace.

“Could be somethin’ still in evidence,” Rick offered after a few moments, when he’d regrouped and reorganized his thoughts. “They’ll hold onto that stuff for years, especially if no one comes by to claim... any of it…” His words trailed off as a memory rose unbidden to the surface of his mind, Shane’s name written with a trembling hand on the side of a cardboard box, the empty blankness on his finger as his wedding ring went into the box. “Son of a bitch,” he said, almost wonderingly. “It’s in the garage.”

“Yeah?” Daryl prompted, not sarcastic or sneering, but patiently waiting for Rick to explain.

“Lori gave me a box full of Shane’s stuff when I moved out,” Rick said. “She didn’t want it around.”

Daryl was fast, Rick had to give him that. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, looking away out the window again. “In the garage?” he echoed. “In that big-ass pile of boxes?”

Rick nodded in agreement. “Probably somewhere near the bottom, it was one of the first to go in,” he admitted, wincing a little when Daryl groaned.

“Pro’ly easier to burn the whole thing down,” the hunter muttered sourly.

“We are not burning my house down,” Rick said, after a beat or three of consideration, and instantly wondered what the hell was wrong with him, with his _life_ , that he was even considering such a thing, that he was even having this conversation in the first place. Daryl gave him a single measuring look.

“I was talkin’ ‘bout the pile of boxes,” he said, and Rick looked away, focusing on the road again.

It was actually something of a relief when the bar appeared.

Rick parked in the far back row of the lot, as far away from the bar itself as he could. He’d driven his cruiser- between the two of them, they had no unmarked, civilian vehicle that could comfortably transport two people, and Rick was starting to find that annoying. He slung himself out of the car, touching a hand to the gun resting low on his right hip in reassurance, its familiar weight comforting. Daryl was swinging his crossbow over his shoulder as he came around the car to meet Rick, and at least if Rick was being paranoid, he wasn’t the only one.

“Where’d Ed die?” the hunter asked, and Rick pointed up the road.

“C’mon,” he said, and headed out, the hunter on his heels.

It was creepy, somehow, despite the bright sunshine still washing over the land- the woods crowding lazily up on either side of the road were shadowed and dark, the early-summer cicadas chirring madly in an overpowering blanket of noise, the pavement of the road rough and crumbling. Rick found himself constantly drifting towards the center line, the old yellow paint sun-bleached and fragmented, and he caught himself putting his hand on the butt of his gun so often he stopped bothering to move it away again. Daryl was silent beside him, his head down as he focused on whatever-it-was he was thinking about, and Rick glanced at him frequently to reassure himself of the other man’s presence until the road curved enough that their evening-long shadows stretched out ahead of them.

“Here,” he said finally, after what felt like a small eternity but was probably only about fifteen minutes. Despite a month’s worth of rain and cars driving by, there was still a vague discoloration on the road, and- Rick glanced up, looking around- yep, there were the trees he’d wrapped the crime scene tape around. Rick had had to do it himself, he being one of the few people whose first reaction upon seeing the body was not to go throw up.

Daryl stopped just shy of the discoloration, looking down at it with an unreadable expression. He had been one of the last people to see Ed alive, Rick remembered- had kicked him out of the bar even, sent him out to his death. He seemed to have enough of a grip on guilt and responsibility to not completely blame himself, but that was much easier to say when you weren’t standing over the spot where a man died because of something you did, however indirectly. After a moment the hunter looked away, into the trees pressing in on either side.

“Wouldn’t’ve been followin’ the road,” he said quietly, stepping widely over the stain and heading towards the side of the road. “So where’d it come from?” He looked over at Rick, still standing in the sunlit safety of the center of the road. “Anythin’ around here?” he asked.

It had been a month- a very interesting month, at that- and Rick had long ago trained himself to only hold onto the important details and forget the minutiae of a case. “You worked around here,” he pointed out, gesturing broadly down the road behind them to indicate the bar. “You’d know better than me.”

Daryl shook his head and shrugged. He paced away towards the stain again, staring up the road through the fringe of his hair, looking for all the world like a hunting dog trying in vain to catch a scent to chase. After a moment he shrugged his crossbow higher up onto his shoulder and set off down the road again, heading away from the bar.

“If he was here for somethin’, he’d’ve parked his car nearby,” he said as he walked, Rick jogging a few paces to catch up.

“Parked his car?” Rick echoed, mostly to himself, trying to imagine the sort of thought process that would lead somebody to be so blasé, so deliberate about this, to plan it out to the point that they would drive out there and park their car and position themselves so as to point the monster they were about to unleash, about to _become_ , at someone in specific. He couldn’t do it.

_Not human_ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Randall had been a monster, and had had to be stopped, but he’d also been a victim, one Rick desperately wished he could have helped. But this other person, this older wolf- this was the real monster, Rick realized with a shiver, suddenly understanding everything Daryl had been trying to explain to him. This was a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer. The wolf was just the weapon; the real danger here was the person wielding it.

He remembered the sound of a screen door swinging open, claws scraping lightly over wood, remembered the harsh wet sound of the werewolf’s breath on the other side of the door as he stood there, ready to pull the trigger at the tiniest twitch of noise, and wondered if it had known he was there, and what it might have done different if he hadn’t been.

“Close enough for the sound of the bar to draw it, so nothin’ else would catch its attention an’ pull it off target,” Daryl said over his shoulder to Rick, who had been falling behind again as the cold horror of that realization soaked into his bones. “Far enough that no one’d find the car no matter how long it took to get back to it.” He gestured ahead. “Think I remember somethin’ about an abandoned gas station up ahead.”

Rick looked at their lengthening shadows, at the sun oozing syrupy-slow towards the horizon, at the shadows gathering dusk-dark in the trees. Sunset took forever in the summer, and it was the solstice today, but… “How far?” he asked warily. They had two hours still easy, but under the circumstances, Rick was inclined to be overcautious. 

Daryl looked back at him a moment, then glanced at the road ahead. Then he turned around, heading back towards the bar. “Should probably get the car,” he said, graciously allowing Rick his fit of paranoia and not calling him out on it, and Rick nodded and turned and followed him, sparing one last untrusting glance towards the forest.

Better safe than sorry.

\-----

The road Hatlin’s was on had once been one of the main roads into Ashlyn, before the highway had twisted serpentine, like an unsettled river, to brush close by to the town. Now it was run-down and potholed, a newer branch leading off to the collection of farms beyond, the older original road leading into dead-ended nothingness that had once been an offshoot of the town itself.

Daryl had Rick follow the old road, shot through with potholes and giant, jagged cracks in the pavement, until the trees pressed in claustrophobia-close and the pavement had crumbled into gravel that crunched loudly under the tires. Then, up on the left, a gap in the trees, and Rick navigated his way over the bump and jolt of too-soft asphalt as he eased into the turn and pulled into what was once a parking lot.

The pumps were long gone, but the overhang that had shielded them was still there, the metal sheeting half-collapsed and hanging to the ground. The building itself was standing apparently only by sheer stubbornness, its brick face sun-blasted and covered with spray painted scribbles, the mortar eaten away and moss filling in the gaps, its windows boarded over and broken through again. Daryl slung himself out of the cruiser before it even stopped moving completely, heading over to the old building with his crossbow up but not yet notched. Rick was nervy and on edge and letting it get to him, and the tension was starting to infect Daryl as well, despite his efforts to keep it out.

The seedlings on the building’s left side had been cut down, the bushes and overhanging tree limbs ruthlessly trimmed back, two deep tire-spaced grooves carved into the virgin earth. A big car, probably an SUV or a truck, tucked in close beside the building so even if someone was driving past, they’d have to pull into the old lot in order to get an angle to see the vehicle. Daryl looked down at the tracks until Rick joined him, eyeing the little hidey-hole with suspicion.

“Big SUV, from the looks of it,” he said, crouching down by one of the tire ruts. “Heavy, too, to leave tracks this deep.” Daryl knelt down by the other, looking at the scuffed-up piles of dirt, the slurring of the tracks as if the vehicle had slid sideways a few times. 

“Front wheel drive, not four wheel, or just a bad driver,” he added. “Took a few tries to get it movin’.” Farmers knew how to drive through soft earth that would rather eat a tire than pack down under it, how to avoid getting themselves stuck and how to work free of it if they did, but in Georgia, land of no snow, the average driver would never encounter anything like that, and tended to assume having four wheel drive would magically get them out if they did get stuck somehow.

Rick picked up a long, brittle stick- a maple seedling, Daryl realized, barely three feet tall, cut down to make room for the truck. He rolled it over in his hand, tracing his fingers over the cut end.

“He came prepared,” he said softly, and looked over at Daryl, expression caught between fear and moral outrage. “Who the hell even _does_ this?”

He didn’t mean cutting down the seedling, Daryl figured, which meant he was talking about everything in general. “Someone who doesn’t wanna die,” he said, dark and unapologetic, and stood up, moving away from the tire tracks. He took a moment to reorient himself, then turned and started heading towards the trees, in a straight line towards the bar. He stopped two steps into the forest proper, but if there had ever been any tracks to be found, they were long gone.

They were a month behind this monster, and they were running out of time to find it. Three more nights and then it was _gone_ , and some other hunters would probably catch it later on down the road, but there would be no telling how many people would die in the meantime. Daryl turned around and headed back to the gas station, to where Rick was waiting.

“I’m gonna go out with Joe tonight,” he said as he came over, and Rick frowned, the air around him almost seeming to shiver with sudden cold.

“Thought you decided not to,” Rick said with studied calm, like he wasn’t really interested in the answer, and that was so fake Daryl almost laughed at it.

“Didn’t get anythin’ done comin’ out here,” he said instead, impatient with Rick and himself and this whole damn mess. “We wanna stop this thing, we need to figure out where it _is_ , not where it’s been.”

“ _It’s after you_ ,” Rick growled out, suddenly in Daryl’s face and coldly furious, as angry as he had been that day on the road when Daryl had called him out over talking to Merle. Daryl instinctively flinched, rocking back on his heels and turning his face sharply away, and Rick flinched in turn, retreating instantly, breathing loud and harsh and dragging his hand over his face. After a moment, he dropped his hand and turned back to face Daryl again, his temper reeled in and very visibly, almost painfully, under control. “You’re not goin’ out there alone,” he said, words careful and measured. “If you go, I’m going too.”

It was their first night of hunting all over again, experienced hunter versus well-meaning but clueless civilian- for a moment, Daryl didn’t breathe, couldn’t quite remember how. Then he dropped his head, shrugged and turned away. He wasn’t letting Joe get near Rick, end of discussion. His choices were to suckerpunch Rick and leave him handcuffed to something again, or accept it and stay home.

“Fine,” he said, a touch surly, and headed over to the car, admitting defeat with little grace. It didn’t help that Rick had, in the midst of his little attack of paranoia, apparently decided to lock the car even though they were never going to be more than thirty feet away from it at all times, so instead of dramatically climbing in and slamming his door, Daryl had to wait for the cop to come over and unlock it. By the time he had, the absurdity of the whole thing had taken the edge off of Daryl’s irritation.

He waited until they were both in the car, until they were moving again and back onto the road, gravel turning loudly under the tires, before he looked at Rick again. “We’ll burn that box of stuff tomorrow, get you your house back,” he said.

“Great,” Rick agreed tonelessly, a man completely uninterested in what was on offer, and Daryl looked away again, remembering that too-long pause when Rick had thought Daryl was suggesting they burn his house down. He was getting a little too comfortable in Daryl’s life, settling in like he thought hit was somewhere he belonged, like he didn’t deserve far better than the blood-soaked nightmare that was Daryl’s world. 

He looked away again, tense and miserable all over again, hating himself just a little bit more with every second of silence that passed. It would tear him apart to leave Ashlyn- but dealing with pain was something Daryl had been an expert at for longer than he could remember. He didn’t owe anybody anything, and he wasn’t letting anyone sucker him into thinking he did.

They came around a bend in the road and Rick made an irritated noise as the evening sunshine struck him full in the face, limning his curls with honey gold and turning his eyes blue as sapphires, and Daryl’s breath caught in his throat. He was a beautiful man, and he deserved so much more than a scarred, lovesick hunter- he deserved a peaceful life, a life full of sunny afternoons with his kids, not rainy nights digging up graves, and yeah, yeah. It was long past time for Daryl to leave.

The rest of the drive was spent in awkward, heartbroken silence.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously this is a little late. Um. I'm sorry? *ducks and hides*
> 
> All right, serious business now, kiddies. Next week's scheduled update day is two days before Christmas, which begs the question- is anyone gonna have the time to read fanfic? Should I skip next week, or is it gonna be an early Christmas present to all you lovely people? (fair warning: next chapter's a doozy, and you'll all probably want to murder me, so...)
> 
> All apologies for this, the last chapter I shall describe as a 'lump', the last chapter I am ambivalent about. It's all awesome from here on out, folks.

_June 22nd, 8.07 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

The garage door opened only halfway before grinding to a halt with a screech, the flat wooden panels trembling with mechanical rage. It sounded old and rusty, and Rick knew for a fact it was neither, which meant…

“Bad sign?” he asked inanely, regretting the words even as he said them, immediately feeling like an idiot. Daryl spared him a quick, confused glance, as if trying to gage whether Rick was being stupid on purpose or was mocking him or something. Then he crouched down, well away from the garage door, shining his flashlight into the garage beyond.

“Ain’t a good one,” he replied finally, then jerked backwards when the door started trundling open again, landing flat on his ass and scuttling back a bit more. Rick wrapped his hand tight around the wrench Daryl had pressed upon him- no point in bringing any serious weaponry, no guns or crossbows, which would be worse than useless in such close quarters- but nothing happened, no spirits appearing, no heavy boxes flying out at them. Just the garage, just emptiness, expectant, waiting.

Daryl scrambled to his feet, retreating a step or two more until he was standing back with Rick. The circle of light from the flashlight in his hand danced wildly over the stack of boxes, shining at odd angles into corners and over shadows. Rick tightened his grip on the wrench again, his fingers already aching against the metal. They didn’t have time for this- he was heading into the station for the day, trying to patch up the damage done by his constant flaking out for the last week.

“I can go get some lighter fluid,” Daryl offered, nodding to indicate his house.

“We’re not burnin’ the whole pile,” Rick replied, grim and determined. His life was in those boxes- never mind that it had been packed up and stowed away, out of sight and mind, for over a month- everything from before his return to King County, before his marriage failed, before his sudden intrusion into a world of magic and monsters, and he didn’t want to let that life go yet. He wasn’t a hunter, he wasn’t going to live that life, not even if clinging to his old life got him killed.

He held out the wrench, nudging Daryl in the arm with it when he just frowned down at it. “Cover me?” he asked, and the question almost sounded flirty, but that didn’t matter since Daryl was crap at picking up things like that. The hunter just snorted, like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard, and traded his flashlight for the wrench and grinned, sharp and bright and keen, a predator scenting prey.

Two steps over the garage’s threshold, Rick walked into a wall of bitter, soul-deep cold. He forced himself to push through, to breathe when his cold-shocked lungs tried to seize up, to not look up when something flickered like bad reception in the corner of his eye. He kept his head down and slid to a stop beside the tower of boxes, dropping instantly to his knees- there was an awareness of a _presence_ behind him, a stir of movement and a quiet swishing noise like a pitcher up at bat swinging and completely missing the ball, and the tight terrible pressure of cold and hatred eased instantly- he ignored it all and pushed against the boxes, trying not to knock too many off the top. The tower was staggered and spread out, reaching varying peaks of five and six boxes high, an island mountain range in the concrete ocean of his garage floor. They were heavier than he’d thought- one marked _textbooks_ was as impossible to move as if it had been bolted to the floor, and if the garage weren’t quite so haunted, he would have taken the time to look through it to see what the hell was really in there, because he hadn’t been _that_ bad about not returning his textbooks in high school. 

Daryl was standing sentinel behind him, patient and silent, watchful and wary. The hand not holding the wrench hovered near Rick’s shoulder, as if the hunter was prepared to grab him and bodily haul him back out of the garage. He hadn’t liked this idea, Rick knew that- and after what had happened the last time, after Hattiesburg, he couldn’t blame him- but his silent support of even Rick’s bad ideas was alarmingly unwavering. He’d allowed Rick to bully him into calling off the werewolf hunt with Joe last night, and the more Rick thought about it, the bigger a deal he realized that was- he’d left a fellow hunter hanging out to dry, left him to face an old, smart werewolf on his own, because Rick had been _worried_.

The very air itself shivered around them, ice crawling up Rick’s spine and sending him into a helpless, bone-deep shudder. Right. Focus. He checked three boxes high on each stack, skating the palms of his hands up the wall of cardboard, pushing and pulling, his breath coming faster and sharper. Textbooks, kitchenware, fuck, baby clothes, books, _fuck_ -

“The hell’s takin’ so long?” Daryl demanded, and for all he sounded calm and casual, there was a steel thread of tension in his words. He didn’t like being in here, didn’t like going toe-to-toe with the spirit on its own turf, and he sounded about three seconds away from saying _screw it_ and grabbing Rick and hauling ass out of there.

“It’s not here,” Rick said, the possibility only just occurring to him even as he was saying the words, and he felt something very much like panic settle into him. It wasn’t there, how could it not be there-?

Some part of Rick wanted Daryl to argue, wanted him to ask what the hell Rick meant, _it’s gone_ , wanted Daryl to fight back and give Rick a clearly defined target for his anger. Instead, the hunter swore once, pressing in closer to Rick’s back as Rick leaned forward, desperate now, pushing boxes aside and sending stacks toppling over.

The garage door starting up with a cough, the segmented wood face of the door rolling down, and Rick looked up at it in uncomprehending surprise. Then there was a hand on the back of his neck, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he was pulled back off his knees to sprawl gracelessly across the garage floor, scrabbling uselessly for leverage like a flipped-over turtle. Half a second later an arm looped under his, hauling him halfway up off the floor, cradling his shoulder against a broad, strong chest as he was dragged backwards, fast and low to the ground.

The hunter got them under the fast-closing garage door and three steps beyond before the sheer momentum he’d been using to keep them moving faltered, and they collapsed together in a graceless huddle of limbs in the driveway. Rick pushed himself up so he was sitting upright, scuffing his palms raw against the rough pavement, and watched the garage door snap shut with an ominous rattle.

“Shit,” Daryl muttered. He’d gotten himself turned around as well and was sitting close by, close enough that Rick could feel the gentle press of his ribs as he breathed, close enough to smell the faint stink of cigarette smoke on his clothes and the store-brand bar soap from his shower on his skin. It was by far the closest he’d ever voluntarily gotten to Rick, the closest he’d been since that disastrous night when Rick had woken him up from his nightmare and he’d grabbed a knife, the closest he’d been since the night Randall died and they’d been pressed together so tight one could hardly take a step without tripping the other. Far too close for a man who, up until that moment, had had some extremely rigid ideas about personal space.

If Daryl wasn’t going to object to the sudden lack of boundaries, far be it for Rick to do so. He very carefully didn’t look at the other man, didn’t acknowledge his proximity, just sighed and scraped a hand through his hair.

“Carl must’ve moved it,” he said tiredly. “He looked up to Shane, loved him like an uncle. We never told him about… any of it.” He groaned into his wrist at his own words. God, he’d handled that whole mess so badly. They all had.

“Don’t mean he didn’t know,” Daryl pointed out. “He ain’t stupid. He had to know somethin’ was up.” He paused for a long moment, his breath caught and held- Rick was close enough to feel it, to feel the steel cord of tension curling through him. Finally he added, carefully casual, “Didn’t have to be him that moved it, either.”

Rick closed his eyes for a moment, remembering- in vivid, blood-freezing detail- his kitchen table tipping over and sliding towards them with the speed and momentum of a freight train, that sudden knowledge that if it pinned them they were so dead. He pictured his garage, tried to imagine any little hidey-holes where Shane- _the spirit_ \- could have hidden the box. Assuming it had no fine control, and could only bat things around like a cat playing with a mouse- but no, no. “No,” he said. “The stack was still standin’. The spirit would’ve had to have knocked it over, right?”

Daryl gave that a moment’s consideration before he shrugged and nodded, then leaned away from Rick as he pushed himself up to his feet. “Call your kid,” he suggested, picking up the wrench and heading back over to his house.

Rick dropped his hands to rest on his knees and tried not to notice how he was suddenly feeling oddly cold despite the humid summer heat already soaking the air.

\-----

Silver was a soft metal, malleable like half-frozen water, and after Rick headed in to work for a few hours, Daryl spent the better part of the morning working on his arrows, making sure the silver tips were holding their shape despite the recent abuse they’d been suffering.

There was blood still caked into the nicks and grooves on one of the arrowheads. Daryl rolled the arrow over and over in his hands, trailing his fingers aimlessly over the slippery-smooth silver, and watched the dark stains blur by. He should’ve burned the arrow with the body- would have, if he hadn’t still needed it, if silver weren’t so expensive. Then he got up and headed into the garage, poured some bleach into a mop bucket and stuck the arrow in it to soak. It would tarnish the silver, but he honestly didn’t give a single solitary fuck about that.

Then, and only then, he pulled his cell phone out and fired off a text to Joe.

_You still alive?_

_no thanks to you_ , came the reply.

Daryl snorted at that- there went his vague, guilt-induced notion of apologizing- and tossed his phone down onto the table without replying, then scowled at it when it lit up with an incoming call a minute later, its ringtone shattering the silence of the kitchen. For a moment he debated ignoring it, then told himself to grow up and stop acting so high school about the whole thing. Joe wanted to bitch like a cheerleader who’d been stood up on a date, the least Daryl could do was laugh at him for it.

“That ghost thing had better be life-or-death,” Joe said in greeting when Daryl answered.

“Guy’s got kids,” Daryl said, furious despite himself at Joe’s careless presumptuousness. “A baby. Yeah, it’s life-or-death. Ain’t like the wolf’s rackin’ up a body count.”

“At the moment,” Joe added, his tone breezy like it didn’t concern him, and sickened guilt settled in a knot in Daryl’s stomach. He thought about Randall, the poor dumb kid who’d gotten dragged into this mess on no fault of his own- he thought of Ed, drunk bastard who maybe deserved killing but hadn’t deserved to be werewolf bait. Glenn, who’d missed being gutted by werewolf by a matter of inches and his own desperate genius- Maggie, who would be a werewolf now if it weren’t for Rick and Daryl- the woman Randall had killed- no, the wolf wasn’t racking up a body count _right now_ , but it had killed three people in Ashlyn so far, if indirectly.

“A’right,” he said with a tired sigh, dropping back in the chair and propping his heels up on the table. “What’ve you got?”

“Not much,” Joe admitted. “Lynn County sheriff department’s reported a dead deer found mutilated on one of the state highways, some campers in one of the parks reported a creepy dude wandering around. Nothing concrete, which makes sense- your wolf had a fucking feast on the Greene farm.” He paused, then added mildly, almost reprovingly, “What do you have?”

“Month-old tire tracks from a big-ass truck,” Daryl said, and there was a brief, startled silence over the line.

“Are you sure it’s from the wolf?” Joe asked.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Can’t prove it in a court of law, o’ course, but it’s his.” 

Joe made a thoughtful noise. “Where at?” he asked.

“The hell’s that matter?” Daryl countered. “ ‘S a month old. What park were those campers at?”

There was an irritated grunt, and a sound like paper rustling, like Joe was digging through his notebook. Daryl tried to imagine not being able to remember such details, and couldn’t- theirs was not a profession wherein people tended to grow old and retire. Die young, bloody and screaming, more rather. 

“Ah, Westwood Park, southern entrance,” Joe said after a moment, and Daryl pushed his chair back until it was balanced on two legs, closing his eyes so he could call to mind remembered images of maps and road signs.

Not an official state park, but a popular campsite- far enough into the foothills to be bordering on the mountains proper, far enough from civilization to escape the light pollution and the traffic sounds and pretend you were the last people on the planet, close enough to be an easy weekend trip from Atlanta.

“Should I bother to meet you there?” Joe asked, and the bland accusation in his tone made Daryl feel itchy, made him want to squirm.

Joe had already met Rick, he knew about the cop- it would be easier with three, but- no. He didn’t want Rick any more involved in the hunting world than absolutely necessary. He didn’t want Joe knowing about Rick, but he also didn’t want Rick meeting Joe, realizing what that life tended to do to people, seeing what Daryl would eventually become. He didn’t want Rick’s pity or disappointment, didn’t want Rick thinking he could _save_ him from this life. Best to keep them far apart.

“ ‘S just gonna looking around, it ain’t gonna be there,” he said wryly, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “You sound bitchy. Stay home an’ get some sleep, I can handle this.”

“Really?” Joe asked, and now he sounded like a disappointed teacher scolding a student who’d failed his third test in a row. “Are you sure? You’ve been somewhat unreliable as of late, Daryl.”

_Unreliable_. Ironic, really, considering the Sheriff was trying to slap Rick with the very same label, because Rick was trying to do Daryl’s job on top of his own. No matter what they did, they couldn’t win with these people.

“Fuck you,” Daryl said, unable to come up with a more compelling response- he wasn’t killing himself trying to track down this wolf, and by hunter standards, that _was_ being unreliable.

“If you really want to get back into hunting-” Joe began, his tone bordering on full-on lecture mode, and Daryl let his chair fall forward onto all four legs with a _thump_ he knew was loud enough for the older man to hear over the phone.

“Don’t even start that shit,” he growled. “I don’t need you, or anyone else, tellin’ me how to do my damn job.”

“Fine,” Joe snapped back. “Don’t get yourself killed tonight,” he added, all false sugary sweetness, and then hung up, the call ending with a subtle click. Daryl snarled and reared back in his chair, arm cocked and drawn back in preparation of throwing the phone across the room- but common sense reasserted itself, and he dropped the phone on the table instead and buried his face against his hands with a tired groan. He wanted this whole shitstorm over with, he wanted this part of his life done and gone.

Looking through the gap between his fingers, he could see the remaining two silver-tipped arrows on the table as well as his phone, a patient reminder of what was waiting for him come nightfall, and he dropped his hands and picked up his phone again. Two more nights, and whether it was over or not, it would be done.

He picked Rick’s name off the pitifully short contact list and hovered briefly over the Call button for a moment, then picked Text instead.

_Westwood Park, south entrance, seven pm_

He didn’t wait for a reply, just tucked his phone into his pocket and pushed himself up, heading out into the garage to grab the arrow he’d left to soak. 

Two more nights, and he’d be done.

\-----

_June 22nd, 7.11 p.m.  
Westwood Park, south entrance_

“I don’t trust him,” Rick said, tossing the last of his deputy’s outfit- his hat- into the trunk of his cruiser and slamming the trunk door down. Daryl, leaning on the front bumper with his back pointedly turned while Rick had been changing, spared him a glance.

“Who, Joe?” he asked, distractedly. He’d come loaded for bear tonight, Rick thought with a wry grimace- long-sleeved jacket instead of his normal sleeveless shirt, actual jeans with no holes over the knees instead of his normal worn cargos, hunting knife on his belt, a heavy-looking duffel bag slung over the shoulder not currently bracing the crossbow. When Rick gave a small nod, he snorted and turned away, pushing himself away from the car and moving along after Rick. “Good.” 

“You think he’d send us on a wild goose chase?” Rick asked, stopping at the edge of the parking lot to eye the signs posted there. Westwood wasn’t a big park, probably only a dozen or so square miles- but it was surrounded on three sides by forest and mountains, with nothing but signs posted on the hiking trails to distinguish between the park and the wild land, and that would be more than enough to lose a werewolf in.

“Think _I’d_ send us on a wild goose chase?” Daryl countered. He reached up to one of the signs, the one with the map of the park with the camping sites highlighted, and tapped his finger against one of the sites closest to the You Are Here arrow. “I checked. ‘S good info.” He paused, spared Rick a single, quick look. “He’s out chasin’ a better lead right now, guarantee it, but he’s not lyin’ to us.”

“The wolf’s not gonna be here?” Rick clarified, and Daryl shrugged one shoulder and gave a slight shake of his head, ducking around the signs and moving off down the trail winding through the woods. Rick matched his stride, reaching out and tugging at the strap of the duffel bag over Daryl’s shoulder until the hunter grunted at him in irritation and shrugged it off, letting Rick take it. “Then why are we here?” he asked, slinging the bag over his own shoulder- he could draw and shoot one-handed. Daryl couldn’t.

“Same reason you cops put someone to watch the criminal’s house, even when you know he ain’t comin’ home,” Daryl said, and Rick let his breath hiss out. That was a classic haze-the-rookie tactic, and Rick himself had spent over a hundred hours of his life he wasn’t getting back sitting outside empty houses, waiting for someone else to make the arrest he wouldn’t get to be there for, itching for the chance to prove himself.

Leaving that one aside for the moment, Rick focused again on his original objection. “If you don’t trust Joe, why are you doin’ what he says?”

“I don’t like him,” Daryl said. He paused for a moment, faltered, searching blindly for the words and drawing in on himself a little when he found them. “He reminds me of my old man,” he said, carefully not looking at Rick, and pushed on before Rick could even begin to process that, never mind react to it. “But we’re hunters. He ain’t gonna screw up my hunt just to screw with me.”

“Bet your life?” Rick asked, darkly, and Daryl paused for a moment, just long enough to pin a long, hard, dark stare on him. He turned away again without saying a word but radiating enough icy disapproval to shut Rick down completely.

Well. Apparently there was a code here, one all hunters abided by, and even just suggesting someone might not be playing by the rules was unthinkable. Rick could have, should have, figured that much out on his own- there seemed to be the bare bones of a network in place, if nothing else, connecting hunters and suppliers, leaving them all vaguely aware of each other’s existence. And, of course, the hunter’s funeral- the way Daryl had said those words, the obvious weight behind them- there was some sort of society here, underground as it was, based in seedy bars and the back rooms of gun stores.

Still, Daryl was not an idiot. There was simply no way it truly hadn’t occurred to him that Joe might be double-crossing them. He clearly questioned Joe’s reliability enough to double check any information he passed along.

“Never told him about you,” Daryl said finally, suddenly, and Rick lifted his head to blink at him. The hunter glanced back again, this time shying away before their gazes met. “Never told him I found another partner. So no.” He wrapped his hand around the crossbow strap, tugging the weapon up to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder. “Not bettin’ my life on it.”

Rick smiled into the gloom gathering in the shadows of the forest and tried not to feel too ridiculously touched by that. It meant nothing- Daryl had already admitted he didn’t like Joe, didn’t trust him- he was probably just protecting Rick from Joe, protecting Rick from the shitstorm that was the hunting life. But that a trained, professional monster killer would consider Rick the one factor in the equation that would tip the balance in his favor- yeah, that was a little flattering.

The camp site was a twenty-minute walk through the woods- ten at a run, and Rick tried not to imagine running down that path with a werewolf on his heels. It was just a clearing in the trees, complete with a fire pit and a rusty old barbecue and a few picnic tables. Rick dropped the duffel bag in the center of the clearing and crouched over it, unzipping it and looking inside-

“We are not staying here tonight,” he said, voice cold as ice. He straightened up and turned to Daryl, who was poking at one of the picnic tables, trying to see how much effort it would take to move it.

“Go home then,” the hunter said dismissively. “I’m stayin’.”

“Daryl-” Rick began, and Daryl turned on him, snake-strike quick.

“You keep sayin’ it’s after me,” he said, matching Rick’s icy fury with steely determination. “I don’t think it is, but fine. It is. This is the best chance we’ve got of gettin’ it before it gets away. We got two more nights, Rick. Then it’s off again, pullin’ this same shit in some other town.”

Rick curled his hands into fists, aching to wrap them around Daryl’s neck and hold on tight- just for a little while, just long enough to leave Daryl too weak and woozy to argue while Rick dragged him back to the car and well away from here- but the hunter had settled himself into place with an air that spoke of permanence. He was doing this regardless, and Rick could either back him up or not- for one long, insane moment, Rick was reminded of Maggie, and her plan of the ambush in the barn- it worked, Rick reminded himself. She hadn’t counted on the second wolf, but her plan had worked, in no small part because Rick and Daryl had _made_ it work.

He turned away, back to the duffel bag, knelt down again and began unpacking it- two lanterns and two high-powered flashlights, two bottles of water and a bottle of caffeine pills, extra batteries and granola bars and a bag of beef jerky. Rick kept the last for himself, ripping it open with his teeth and pulling out a jerky strip to gnaw on before handing the bag over to Daryl, then helped him drag one of the picnic tables to the center of the clearing.

“Bathroom’s half a mile that way,” Daryl said as he was loading fresh batteries into the lanterns. “You gotta go, go now.”

Rick looked out in the direction Daryl had indicated, then looked around again, taking stock of his surroundings properly this time. The clearing was easily thirty feet in circumference- werewolves were fast, he’d seen that first hand, but they weren’t _that_ fast- if it came at them, even at a dead run, they’d see it coming in time to put it down. Daryl was putting the lanterns on the other picnic tables, leaving the circle of the edge of the clearing bisected by the two circles of light, so there would be only two narrow corridors of night-darkness for the werewolf to try to slip in through. It was a good spot in theory for an ambush- in theory, because no ambush was a good idea when the prey was this dangerous, but credit where credit was due.

He tried to imagine spending sitting at- or on, rather- the wooden table in the center of the clearing, back-to-back with Daryl all night long, because once they were settled in it would be too dangerous to move until dawn chased the nightmares away. At least they'd been almost completely certain the younger werewolf was coming for Maggie, that night at the barn. Here, it would be less of an ambush and more of an endurance test.

"This is a bad idea," Rick said, and Daryl snorted.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, unflinching, even smirking a little. He genuinely didn't expect the wolf to show, Rick realized. They were going to sit up and stay awake all night so Daryl could prove a point, and that point was that even his enemies didn't think him worth wasting their time on.

Rick headed back to the duffel bag, grabbed one of the flashlights out. "Which way's the bathroom?" he asked, and followed the faint trail beaten into the dirt in the direction Daryl pointed, one hand resting on the butt of the Colt now permanently strapped to his hip. He knew better- Daryl could think so little of himself as much as he wanted, but Rick _knew_ better.

The wolf was coming tonight, and Rick would be ready.


	20. moonrise, iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this late-ish because my cousin, who is my favorite person ever of all time I am not even kidding, got me an early Christmas present of Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert tickets, which was today. It was _epically awesome_. (if you're sitting there going ???, look up trans-siberian orchestra's carol of the bells on youtube. if you listen to christmas music on the radio at all, you've heard it, guaranteed, but it is still well worth the listen. they closed the show with that number.)
> 
> Also, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer, so here is your weekly update. Just remember, you asked for this.

_June 23rd, 3.29 a.m.  
Westwood Park campsite_

Anticipation and determination and furious, burning righteousness could only carry a man so far, Rick thought darkly- approximately four nights of werewolf hunting, it seemed.

He jerked awake when his elbow hit the table, hard enough and perfectly angled to send a jolt of nerve-numbing pain jagging up and down his arm like lightning, pins and needles sweeping in its wake. He sat upright with a quiet gasp, pointedly ignoring the near-silent huff of laughter from behind him, and turned his arm so he could see the face of his watch in the faint light from the lanterns. Three thirty in the morning- almost half an hour since he’d last checked the time, he would guess he’d been out about ten minutes- he grunted and dragged his hand over his face, then buried his fingers into his hair and pulled until his scalp burned with pain.

He’d never fallen asleep on a stakeout before- but then, he’d never been on such an unusual stakeout before. There had always been coffee to drink, the CB to listen to, a partner to shoot bullshit with. Here, he had none of those things- the steady silence that settled so well, so comfortably, between him and Daryl was mind-numbingly boring after nine hours of _nothing_.

He could have made a run into town for coffee before the sun had set, he supposed. He’d had time. However, drinking meant eventually needing to go, and getting caught with your pants down on a regular stakeout was embarrassing, but rarely more than that. Here, it was likely to get his dick ripped off, followed shortly by his face.

“Dawn’s in three hours,” he said, so quiet it was barely a noise, and Daryl made a faint sound of acknowledgement. The picnic table trembled with the echoes of his movement as the hunter braced himself against it and stretched, joints popping like muted gunshots. Had to give him credit, Rick allowed- he’d sat there in silence so far, making no smug comments, not asking for the time, not giving Rick pointed looks as the hours passed by- the closer it got to dawn, the closer he got to being proven right and Rick wrong, but he was as calm and centered as if he honestly expected the wolf to show up at any moment. Better to assume it would and be wrong than the reverse.

Rick braced his elbow against the table and cradled his chin on his palm as he looked up. The trees towering around them cut off most of the view- the near-full moon had meandered into view, briefly, before disappearing into the leafy fringe again- but Rick still had a good, clear view of a slice of sky. He studied the stars, bright against the deep blue-black backdrop of the sky and not washed out by city lights, and for a moment he felt so very alone, as if the forest stood alone and nothing existed beyond it, just him and Daryl and that sliver of sky and the trees and beyond only a void.

There was a noise- tiny, insignificant, a breath of wind in the leaves- and the lantern behind Rick flickered and died.

Rick hit his hip on the picnic table as he tried to rise and ended up sitting again, eyes watering and teeth gritting from the pain- but Daryl was on his feet instantly, crossbow up and pointed over Rick’s bowed head into the darkness beyond. He kept his aim steady but turned his head, doing a quick sweep of the entire area, while Rick twisted himself carefully away from the table before trying to stand again.

“Bad batteries?” Rick asked after a few tense minutes of silence. Daryl had drifted around the table, coming around to stand next to Rick, the crossbow unwavering even as it pointed at nothing.

“Other one’s fine,” Daryl pointed out, jerking his chin to indicate the second lantern, its flat fluorescent light throwing eerie shadows across the clearing. Rick groped blindly across the table until his hand encountered one of the flashlights. He flicked it on and aimed the beam of light at the dark lantern, sitting innocuously on the other table.

Daryl looked around again, one last time, then glanced at Rick and tilted his head a little. Rick gave a nod, and Daryl tilted his crossbow up, pointing its nose at the sky and bracing its body against his shoulder, freeing up one hand. He eased forward, cautious, careful movements, reached out as soon as he was within arm’s reach, hooked one finger around the thin loop handle at the top of the lantern, and retreated instantly, not stopping until he was almost pressed against Rick. Then he rolled the lantern over, awkward with only one hand free.

The base of the lantern had three neat little furrows carved deep into the plastic, cutting through to the mechanical guts underneath. Daryl let the lantern roll off his fingers and brought his crossbow back down, pivoting to cover Rick’s back.

“Get to the other one ‘fore it kills it too,” he said, and Rick nodded.

It was easier, with just the two of them- no odd angles, no crossing over and tripping each other up, just moving, like they’d practiced at it before, like their partnership wasn’t less than a week old. Rick flinched a little when something snarled and blurred by, just outside of the edge of the light from the flashlight he was still holding- he remembered how this wolf liked to play, liked to flirt with the light, and he didn’t waste any energy trying to chase after it with the light, didn’t risk turning away in the direction it had been heading. It was trying to scare them, again- but this time, there was no weak link in their chain, no scared twenty-year-old barely holding off the crippling panic. They were two grown men, professionally trained to keep their heads when the world around them turned into a living horror movie.

There was another blur of motion, followed by a short, sudden jerk as the wolf came to a halt, and this time Rick was fast enough to get it in the light. He got an impression of awkwardly long limbs and a long muzzle, nose pointed up and twitching like a dog catching a scent- then it snarled and was gone, darting away again.

Something crashed in the trees behind Rick, in the exact opposite direction the wolf had been two seconds ago. Daryl tensed and risked taking half a step forward, but Rick frowned into the darkness, glancing over his shoulder, aching to turn the flashlight around- the wolf wasn’t _that_ fast.

“What the _hell_ ,” Daryl muttered suddenly, rocking back on his heels, back into Rick- and then Rick could smell it too, sickly-sweet and so thick he could choke on it. The wolf snarled again, crashing through the trees ahead of Rick, reflective eyes shining the light back at them and highlighting its position.

Then it convulsed and made an odd noise, sharp and sudden and explosive, and Daryl craned his neck around, half-turning on the spot.

“Did it just sneeze?” Rick asked, inanely, and the hunter only gaped blankly in answer. The wolf snarled at them, pressed forward, sneezed again, and whirled on the spot, disappearing into the darkness beyond with a half-howl that echoed. The crashing in the trees behind Daryl came again, accompanied by a giggle. Rick shined his light after the wolf, half-heartedly, then groaned and turned, aiming the light low- chest height, on an average person.

“Shit,” a voice said, female- and the light fell across two faces, young and pretty, eyes squinting and hands flailing up to shield their faces from the light. One of the girls giggled, but the other peeked around her fingers, her gaze locked on Daryl, her face going pale and horrified as she came back down to Earth alarmingly fast.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Daryl muttered, too quietly for the girls to hear, and allowed the crossbow to drop. Rick said nothing, too much at war within himself- his inner cop was horrified at the prospect of two teenage girls wandering around the woods in a marijuana cloud thick enough to _chase off a werewolf_ , while the rest of him was marveling at the absolute absurdity of it all.

“Please don’t murder us,” the sober girl said, eyes wide and terrified and fixed on the crossbow still, and Rick holstered his gun and stepped around the hunter, pulling his badge out of his pocket and turning the flashlight so the light shone on it.

“Sheriff’s Department,” he said- conveniently leaving out _which_ department, as they were miles outside of his jurisdiction- and both girls groaned. The sober one backed off a bit, clutching at her friend’s hand, still wary of strange men- good for her, even if her common sense was checking in about six hours too late.

“We are in so much trouble,” the stoned girl said to her friend in what she probably thought was a subtle whisper. The sober girl braced herself, jaw setting and shoulders rolling back, defiance even as she winced.

“You ain’t the only ones,” Daryl muttered, pressing in close against Rick again. “How the hell do we explain _us_?”

Rick grunted and dropped the flashlight, aiming it at the ground between them, dragged his hand through his hair and sighed.

Far away, and getting farther by the second, a wolf howled.

\-----

_June 23rd, 8.43 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

Daryl was already awake and on his feet by the time the doorbell rang- he’d only been dozing on the couch, and had startled awake at the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch. He had the door open before Rick’s hand had fallen away from the doorbell button.

“How’d it go?” he asked as the cop pushed past him, dropping onto the couch Daryl had just vacated with a tired groan. Then again, Daryl had gone home come dawn- they’d agreed it would be for the best if Daryl wasn’t found anywhere near there- while Rick had stayed with the girls and spent the morning lying to everyone about why he was even in the park to begin with.

“I had two teenage girls cryin’ on me for an hour, until their parents got there,” Rick told the ceiling, idly kicking the toe of one boot at the heel of the other in some vague attempt at taking it off. “Think they might’ve preferred it if we were axe murderers,” he added wryly, a touch of a smile lightening up his face.

“The hell were they doin’ out in the park anyways?” Daryl demanded, irritated despite himself. It had taken hours for the fear to set in, for his hands to start shaking and his stomach to start churning- he’d been halfway home and had to pull onto the side of the road, in case he needed to throw up, horror curdling into nausea at the thought of it. Once was bad luck, twice was a coincidence, but that was the third time the wolf had turned up where Daryl was, and he was more than willing to concede the point that it was after him- and _he_ had led it back to that park, had almost served those two kids up to it on a platter. If it hadn’t been so focused on them and ignoring everything else…

It would have been Ed Peletier, all over again, except instead of a drunk jackass, it would’ve been two girls whose only crime were being dumb teenagers.

“Good thing they were,” Rick said, lifting his head to give Daryl a dour glare, and he had to stamp down the urge to recoil at the sight of it. It was well deserved. After a moment, Rick relaxed again, and even allowed the smile to return. “You ever see anythin’ like that before?” he asked.

“The werewolf sneezin’? Hell, no.” Daryl slid down, slowly, gently, on the opposite end of the couch, then dropped back with a tired sigh. He was getting too old to be pulling marathon hunts like this one. “Never thought to bring weed on a hunt, though.”

Rick actually chuckled, the sound soothing over Daryl’s worn nerves. It turned into a long, drawn out, tired sigh as he dropped his head back against the couch again and rubbed his hands over his face. “What now?” he asked finally.

“Get some sleep, head back out tonight,” Daryl said with a shrug.

“It’s the full moon,” Rick told him, dropping his hands and lifting his head again to stare at Daryl, as if he needed the extra emphasis in his words. As if Daryl could have possibly forgotten.

“Best night to hunt werewolves,” Daryl said. He looked Rick in the eye, willing the other man to understand. “This one’s dangerous ‘cause it’s _smart_. But tonight, it won’t be. It’ll be all wolf.” 

Rick stared at him, like he thought that was an argument against going out tonight and didn’t understand why Daryl insisted on being stupid about it. “It’s after you,” he said finally, and great, they were back on that. Like that meant anything. Daryl just watched him, waiting, and after a moment Rick sighed. “You don’t care,” he half-guessed. “You’re going anyways.” 

“ ‘S the last chance we’re gonna get,” Daryl pointed out stubbornly. He shifted his weight forward, resting his elbows on his knees- they were both sitting on the same couch and they were suddenly too close and not close enough, and he itched to both shift over until they were pressed together and to leap to his feet and pace away.

“A’right,” Rick said tiredly, while Daryl was still paralyzed by sudden indecision, caught between two competing urges. The cop pushed himself to his feet, arching his back briefly in a joint-popping stretch, looking for all the world like a giant, sleepy cat. “We’re doin’ it my way, though,” he added, turning to face Daryl again. “No more of this sittin’ around in the open. If it really is out of control, it’ll leave a trail we can follow.”

A trail of bodies, Rick wsan’t saying- but that wasn’t fair, the wolf hadn’t directly killed anyone except Ed. Daryl looked up at the cop, followed his gaze towards the front door.

“You wanna sit in the car all night long?” he asked. “An’ what, listen to the radio an’ hope we’re close enough if somethin’ does happen?”

“It’s better than sitting in the open and letting it come at us,” Rick countered. He sounded like he was gearing up for a real fight, and neither of them were in a good enough frame of mind for an argument, so Daryl snorted and shrugged and pushed himself up as well.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, pushing his hair out of his face and turning away. They could fight about it later, after they’d gotten some sleep and had enough presence of mind to actually control what was coming out of their mouths. “ ‘M goin’ to bed,” he said instead, and hesitated for just a moment, waiting for… something. But Rick said nothing, did nothing, just glanced up at him in confusion when Daryl lingered a moment too long, so the hunter ducked his head and moved away.

He was leaving, he reminded himself- as soon as all this was done, he was _gone_. Now was not the time to let things start getting even messier between them. One more night.

One more night.

\-----

_June 23rd, 8.29 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

It was _wrong_.

Rick looked at his watch, turned up the volume of the radio, adjusted the mirrors- anything to avoid looking to his right, where sat a man who didn’t belong, who was jarringly _wrong_.

Over a year later, and he was still expecting it to be Shane sitting next to him, munching on the too-crispy fries Rick wouldn’t touch and talking trash about women because he was a declared bachelor and didn’t have any real advice to give. Instead, it was Daryl, who stole all the good fries while Rick was driving and slurped loudly at his soda and said nothing because he was still sulking a little over being forced to accept what he deemed a stupid, pointless plan.

After a long moment, the hunter stirred, finally- _finally_ \- putting his long-empty cup down, every single drop of soda inside long since sucked up through the straw Daryl had alternated between chewing on and blowing through to make it whistle. “What’re we doin’ here?” he asked, vaguely suspicious, looking up at the unlit neon sign that read _Hatlin’s Bar_.

The bar was closed- Sunday night, of course it was- Rick had been counting on that. He pulled into the parking lot, circling the car around in a broad, lazy loop before crawling to a halt in the entry drive, nose pointed out towards the road. There were no customers to scare off and no bar management to yell at them, and anyone driving past would hopefully think it just a speed trap.

“I’m not wastin’ gas drivin’ in circles all night,” Rick said as he shut the engine down. “It seems to like being north of the town, so we’re waiting here.” He didn’t add that this was the one place the wolf _wouldn’t_ look for them- it was Sunday, and Daryl had been fired, and if the wolf really was hunting the hunter, it would know these things, and would expect Daryl to be anywhere but here. Rick was perfectly willing to risk being too far away to catch the wolf in exchange for guaranteed protection. Maybe he was being selfish- hell, no _maybe_ about it, he had weighed the odds and accepted them, voluntarily sacrificing the advantage of the few extra seconds that might save someone’s life in exchange for an extra bit of safety for Daryl’s- but he was beyond the point of caring, really.

Daryl shrugged and looked away, reaching awkwardly over his shoulder to poke at the security grating between the front and back seats. Rick wondered idly if he’d ever rode shotgun in a cop car before, then wondered how many times he’d been in the back seat of one. At least once, that Rick was aware of- probably more, all things considered.

The radio, which had so far been issuing echoing static, chirred to life, Diane’s voice crackling odd and flat across the waves. She sounded bored, like maybe she was playing Solitaire on the computer or painting her nails while reporting a fender bender on Lone Elm road that had resulted in a brief fight between the drivers. It was ordinary and boring, an everyday thing, and it belonged in a different world, at least for tonight. For then, the world that Rick was in was a silver-washed landscape, the moon fat and full above him, a hunter beside him and silver bullets loaded in his gun. 

Daryl rolled the window down and draped his arm outside the car, which Rick almost protested to- but the hunter’s sharp gaze was focused out the window, his body coiled tight with tension, prepared to move, to recoil in a heartbeat. And besides, Rick had no illusions about how well the glass of the window would fare against claws that could cut through bone like butter- if anything, keeping the windows up would be more dangerous, flying glass shards cutting fragile flesh open just as much as the claws themselves-

He shook his head, hard, chasing away the image, and rolled his own window down as well. 

Sundays were quiet nights- no hitting the bars, no late-night shopping- even the lowlifes tended to behave themselves a little better on Sunday. It was silent out as night stole over the land, washing out the shadows with true darkness, like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting. Rick watched the minutes tick by on the console clock until it hit eight fifty-two, and felt himself tense, anticipation like lightning surging under his skin.

Nothing happened.

Rick allowed himself to exhale, settled his breathing back to normal as the digital numbers ticked over again, _eight fifty-three, eight fifty-four_. Eventually- _eight fifty-seven_ \- he realized he was staring at the clock and tore his eyes away, looking out the windows with wild alarm- and met Daryl’s gaze, reflected in the windshield. The hunter was smiling, wry amusement and _calm down, you freak_ affection. Then it was gone, and Daryl was looking away again, but it steadied Rick all the same.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound muffled and worn thin by the miles between, a car horn sounded. A dog barked in answer and set off a chorus that echoed around in the night before petering away again. The radio crackled to life as the dispatcher called for a check-in with the poor bastards stuck on duty tonight. Rick waited until they were silent again, and longer still, until he could no longer stand the sensation of time oozing by, flowing as fast as molasses, and looked at the clock again.

Nine-oh-two.

“This is ridiculous,” Rick muttered, almost flinching at the sudden, too-loud sound of his voice- then almost flinching again, when an unearthly pale light lit up in the corner of his right eye.

“I got,” Daryl began, scrolling through the screens on his phone, brows furrowed in vague concentration. After a moment he held the phone out to Rick in offering. “Golf game,” he said.

“Golf game?” Rick echoed.

“Came with the phone,” the hunter said, retracting his offer and returning once more to flipping through screens. “Ain’t payin’ for that stupid bird or candy game.”

Rick had a few games on his phone, remnants of a time before Carl had his own phone to never call people with. He could only hope it wouldn’t come to that before the night was out. “There’s a werewolf out there, an’ you’re playin’ games?” he asked, feeling stupid even as he said it. Daryl wasn’t careless, not by any stretch of the definition. If he was playing games, it was because he knew he had time to.

“It’s only just shifted,” Daryl said, sure enough. “Gotta give it time.”

Rick looked away again, dropped his head back on the headrest. After a few moments, he reached into the paper bag still sitting on the center console between them and pulled out a few cold fries, grimacing at the soggy-crispy texture and the saltiness. He dutifully finished them all off, wiped the oil off his fingers onto a napkin, and looked at the clock again- nine thirteen.

“So what’d Carl say?” Daryl asked suddenly. The light from his phone died as he stopped playing with it, shifting himself lower in the seat- getting comfortable, but still fully prepared to move at a moment’s notice, although the options of where he would move to were extremely limited.

“What?” Rick countered, dumbly. The radio burred and chattered between them, and they both froze, waiting- but a moment later Diane was reporting a drunk in a convenience store, harassing the clerk and the very few customers, and they relaxed again.

“Your kid,” Daryl said, like he thought somehow it was the Carl part that had thrown him. “You talk to him ‘bout the box of stuff yet?”

“No,” Rick muttered, a bit guiltily, feeling like he was back in high school again, making bad excuses for not doing his homework. “I tried callin’, but he won’t answer. He’s still mad at me.” That, at least, was the truth- Carl texted him several times a day, but they were touch-base texts, just checking to make sure Rick was still alive, and any further attempts at conversation were politely shut down or outright ignored. Rick could have pushed the issue, of course, could have called Lori and have her pass the phone off to Carl and sit on him until he’d had an actual conversation with his father- but that was categorically _not_ going to happen.

“You hear from Joe?” Rick asked after a few moments, the thought only jut occurring to him. Daryl snorted and tossed his phone up onto the dashboard, a snap-wrist motion that looked like it wanted to be a proper throw.

“Nah, he ain’t talkin’ to me,” the hunter said. He flashed Rick a lightning-fast grin, showing far too many teeth to be humorous . “We’re doin’ good today,” he added, and Rick scoffed and looked away out the window so Daryl wouldn’t see the dopey, stupid smile on his face.

Something moved in the shadows along the curb, far too small to be a werewolf. After a moment, a rabbit eased forward with small tentative little hops, ears swiveling and nose a blur of twitching. Eventually it sidled up to the grass at the edge of the lot and began to nibble. The radio buzzed again, Diane dropping her professional dispatcher voice and asking one of the deputies on duty about his kids- a gross breach of protocol, using the radio for personal chatter, but Rick was hardly going to call them out on it and inadvertently admit to lurking on the radio all night.

He looked again. Nine twenty-two.

“Ain’t you ever been on stakeouts before?” Daryl asked when Rick looked at his watch, then his phone, checking to make sure the clock wasn’t just running slow.

“Hundreds of times,” Rick said, and forced himself to sit still, to behave like a goddamn professional instead of a rookie, and tried not to think of all the ways this time was so different from all the others.

This was going to be a long night.

\-----

The first call came at three minutes before midnight- thank _fuck_ , Daryl thought, he was getting sick and tired of Rick’s twitchiness and his own ineptitude, not knowing what to say or do to get the other man to calm the hell down and relax.

Daryl wasn’t paying attention to the radio, and so was startled when the car’s engine started up with a roar. Rick peeled out of the parking lot like he thought the world was ending and Hatlin’s was the apocalypse epicenter, following the address given by the dispatcher to a fairly isolated neighborhood on the edge of town where someone had called in to report sighting a strange animal, which turned out to be a raccoon. But it broke the tension between them, at least.

He had Rick stop at a twenty-four-seven gas station as they meandered their way back to the bar, got out to use the bathroom and stalk through the four aisles inside the mini-mart until Rick got impatient and laid on the horn. He watched the stars wheel by overhead and counted the constellations, and even let himself doze off for a time.

Rick, for his part, stopped checking the clock and actually dared to talk. He explained the police codes, and Daryl didn’t bother to remind him of the police scanner sitting on Daryl’s kitchen table, didn’t tell him he already knew them all. He delved a little bit into his past, describing Carl’s first day at school with a wry smile at the remembered dramatics- he even dared to push a little into Daryl’s, trying to find safe ground in the minefield of his childhood, trying to find something to talk about that wouldn’t involve tripping over an unpleasant memory.

They weren’t going to catch the werewolf, Daryl knew. Not tonight. Not like this. But they were putting a good face on it, and he somehow couldn’t bring himself to care. He was _enjoying_ this, one last night of friendship before he threw it all away tomorrow, a selfish pleasure in a life devoid of either- he didn’t want this to end and definitely didn’t want a werewolf to interrupt.

He was vaguely aware of the sky lightening, but only just barely- he had his head tipped back on the headrest, his eyes closed- impossible to get comfortable enough to really sleep, especially in a cop car with seats that didn’t recline even a little bit. Rick was tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel to some unknown rhythm, keeping himself awake through sheer force of will. They’d gotten coffee and breakfast sandwiches at McDonald’s when it had opened at five, but two all-nighters in a row was hard on someone not used to working graveyard shifts.

They both jumped a little when Rick’s phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket, fumbled it a moment, then got it turned around and tapped at the screen.

“Dawn,” he said, and Daryl slit open an eye to look at the console clock- six twenty-eight, right on time. The sky was old-denim grey washed with pink and hints of orange, the moon big and fat and waxy-yellow, balanced on the horizon. Daryl dropped his head forward into his hands with a groan, rubbing the grit from his eyes, painfully aware of the fact that he’d just spent two nights in a row barely moving. He wanted to go home and go to bed and just sprawl out and take up as much room as possible.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “No more werewolf.”

“No more werewolf hunting,” Rick agreed, an odd tone to his voice. He dropped his phone onto the center console and braced his hands against the steering wheel and rolled his shoulders back, stretching as best he could in the cramped quarters of the car, and Daryl couldn’t look away from the way the fabric of Rick’s shirt shifted and pulled over his shoulders to save his own life. “So what now?” he asked, and Daryl blinked at him, tore his gaze away and looked up to meet his eyes- too late, far too late, Rick was watching him with something new in his eyes, sudden understanding, something dawning-

Daryl coughed and turned away, clearing his throat, shifting impatiently in his seat, wanting nothing more than to get out of the car and just _run_. “Call your kid, figure out where the hell that box is, an’ burn it,” he said, reaching automatically for the door handle, although his hand cramped up and froze as soon as he had a good grip on it. He wanted- he wanted- hell, he didn’t know what he wanted, he just _wanted_.

“Then what?” Rick asked, carefully minding the space between them, wisely keeping his hands to himself, and it really wasn’t fair, that he could sound so calm and unflappable when Daryl was a firestorm inside, and none of it mattered anyway since Daryl was about to shake Rick’s world apart.

_Just tell him, you fucking coward_ , a voice whispered in Daryl’s mind, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Merle’s.

“I can talk to the owner, maybe see if I can help smooth things over if you want your job back,” Rick was saying, complete with a gesture towards Hatlin’s- they’d returned to the bar every time tonight, always came back here, a touchstone. Daryl felt sick, and suddenly, strangely furious, and had to stomp down the urge to break in and trash the place and maybe burn it down for good measure.

“Don’t bother,” Daryl said, and forced himself to look over, to look Rick in the eye, for this much at least. “I’m done.”

Rick wasn’t stupid, even if some of him was a little faster to catch on than the rest. He _knew_ , as soon as Daryl said it, exactly what those words meant. His eyes went wide and his hands curled tight around the steering wheel, even as his voice managed to stay mostly casual as he said, “Done with what? Workin’ here?”

“Done with Ashlyn,” Daryl said, his voice sounding very distant and muffled. “I’m leavin’, once the spirit’s gone.”

His hand was working again, so he was out of the car almost before he finished his sentence, slamming the door shut behind him and pacing aimlessly away. It was stupid, beyond stupid- _get back in the car, moron, the sun’s not fully up and the moon’s still full_ \- but he could hardly breathe around the tightness in his chest, compressing his lungs. He wondered almost idly if he was having some sort of panic attack. He’d never had one before, but he’d seen his fair share of them.

He lifted his head but didn’t turn at the sound of the car door slamming again, at boots crunching over the gravel lot. “What do you mean, you’re leavin’?” Rick demanded, and whatever was happening, Daryl couldn’t look nearly as bad as he felt, or Rick would probably sound a lot less accusing.

“I mean I’m leavin’,” he said, and his voice sounded horribly normal, like this was just an everyday conversation. “I shouldn’t’ve stayed this long.” This is why I _have_ to leave, he wanted to say, because the very thought of leaving scares the breath right out of me.

“You just-” Rick began, then thankfully cut himself off. Daryl really didn’t want to know what he just did, what Rick had just figured out, what Rick should have known all along because Daryl had been flirting with the other man ever since the thing with the peanut butter, that day on the porch, when Rick had inadvertently told Daryl that there was a werewolf in town.

He turned away, backed up until he ran into the car and leaned back against it, needing its support. He could almost breathe properly again, at least. After a moment, he reached into the open window and pulled out his crossbow, hugging it close like it was some sort of security blanket or something, and tried not to feel too disturbed at how much safer it made him feel.

“This entire time, you’ve been tellin’ me how much hunting sucks, how horrible that life is,” Rick said, words clipped and cool. He moved closer as he spoke, closer than Daryl would’ve liked him to get- but to be fair, they were both doing something the other didn’t particularly like at the moment. “And now you’re gonna go back to it? You’ve got a life _here_ , why are you leavin’ it?”

“ ‘S what I know,” Daryl said, helpless. “ ‘S what I’m good at. I can help people, I can _save_ people. It’s worth it.” He unfolded one hand from its death grip on the crossbow and slapped his palm against the side paneling of the car, right over the King County Sheriff’s Department decal on the door. Rick’s eyes instinctively followed the motion and he set his jaw stubbornly, his gaze ice-cold and steely.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he said, slow and soft and careful, handling each word as if they were spun glass.

“Better me than you,” Daryl countered, and that- that was a mistake, but Daryl didn’t know it until Rick’s gaze snapped up to meet his and fire bloomed behind the ice.

“You’re doin’ this for me?” he demanded, moving closer again, and there was all challenge and no gratitude in those words. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Daryl snapped. “I told you from the start, this’ll get you killed. You’ve got kids, and an ex, and a job, you’ve got a _life_ , and I don’t…”

I don’t have anything.

Rick’s eyes went narrow, and he moved forward again, not stopping this time until he was pressed up against Daryl, one hand curling into Daryl’s shirt to hold him in place. Then Rick leaned forward that last little bit and kissed him.

Hardly a master of kissing, even Daryl could tell it wasn’t great, mostly because he was frozen solid and unresponsive. Then Rick growled and bit at his lower lip and Daryl grunted and bit him back, instinctively, and then there was another tongue in his mouth and his hand was buried in thick curly hair and a warm, solid, insistent body was pressed up against his. The crossbow was in the way, caught awkwardly between them, but Daryl didn’t have to focus to let it go and instead leaned around it, pushing into Rick just as much as Rick was pushing into him, sliding his free hand down from Rick’s hair to gather up a handful of shirt between his shoulder blades, in case the man tried to do something stupid like move away.

Finally, eventually, he pushed back, gulping air like he’d just come up from a deep dive, Rick’s breath skating over sweaty skin, and he was too close, and what the hell were they _doing_ -

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough like gravel, like broken glass, and Rick groaned at the sound of it. But Daryl slid his hand around to Rick’s chest, pushing him back, and to his credit, the cop went with it, even if extremely reluctantly. “No,” he said again, breathing easier in the cool space between them, tasting orange juice on his tongue when he’d only had coffee with breakfast, and no, just- just _no_.

“Daryl-” Rick began, and Daryl couldn’t look at him, at his bruised lips and glazed eyes and mussed-up hair, because then they’d be right back to kissing and that was the exact opposite of what Daryl needed to be doing right now.

“ _No_ ,” Daryl said, loud and firm, and gave Rick a hard shove, sending him staggering away. “I’m not draggin’ you into this,” he said, and he deserved a fucking medal for this, he really did.

“It’s not your choice to make,” Rick snapped, but the anger was making a return, and that made it easier to think. He paced away with a noise of inarticulate fury, dragging his hand through his hair, messing it up even more instead of setting it to right. Daryl dropped his head back, leaned his whole weight back against the car and rested the crossbow’s nose against the ground, focusing on just breathing.

Fuck. _Fuck_ , that had been a bad idea, a truly terrible idea, and he was going to take it with him to his grave, was going to remember forever what it felt like to pull Rick Grimes close and kiss him like the world was ending-

He heard it long before he saw it, some part of his mind that was always on guard categorizing the noises even as they registered- sharp, huffing breath, controlled like a marathon runner- feet on the ground, not running, but a predator’s steady, ground-eating lope- a low, steady growl, building in intensity. Rick had half-turned, to continue their argument, and Daryl watched his eyes go wide with sudden horror, his right hand drop to the gun on his hip, and it all happened so _slow_ , like every second was swimming through molasses.

His crossbow was dangling from one hand, resting on the ground, not even drawn back or loaded- Daryl twisted his wrist, got a better grip on it, but that was all he could do before-

_pain_

The werewolf came from his right, hitting him claws-first, knocking him back the little bit he’d pushed away from the car, his head slamming back to crack against the doorframe. There was hot carrion-breath blowing over his face and blood smell on the air and bright lights twisting and dancing before his eyes, his vision gone blurry where it hadn’t doubled, and the wolf was coming back, at least it wasn’t continuing on to Rick, and he couldn’t reach for one of the silver arrows on his bow, couldn’t do anything but curl in on himself and gasp raggedly for air and watch the world swirl away into grey mist.

The last thing he remembered was the wolf’s triumphant howl.


	21. wounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little late again, sorry. Anyways, did y'all have a nice holiday? Get what you wanted? Shut up and get to the fic already?
> 
> I have jury duty next week, so I have no idea how the updating schedule is going to be affected. Cross your fingers and hope I don't get chosen.

_June 24th, 6.29 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

Time moved funny, sometimes. Like how when Daryl had said he was leaving, back in the car, time had unspooled and slowed to a crawl, every breath, every heartbeat an eternity- but the werewolf attack happened in real-world time, everything moving as it should, and Rick felt somehow cheated for it. Everything should have been horror-movie slow motion, he thought abstractly, just before the wolf reached Daryl.

Then there were claws carving into skin, digging furrows into the unprotected flesh between the bottom rib and the curve of the hipbone, where Rick had been touching not even ninety seconds ago.

The wolf- and it was a wolf now, none of that caught-between-ness Randall had died with, a wolf’s snarling face on top of massive shoulders and all covered with thick, bristly grey fur- slid to a careless stop halfway between the two men, claws glittering with blood. For one moment it focused solely on Rick, flat black eyes locked on him- then its nose twitched, and it snorted and wheeled around with a sharp howl, turning back to the man curled against the side of the car, and even from this angle Rick could see the muzzle opening, lips peeling apart to reveal white teeth.

_If you got bit, would you want someone to put you down?_

_Hell, yeah. And I’d thank ‘em while they did it._

“No,” Rick said, voice quiet but loud in the dawn silence, cutting over a werewolf’s snarls and a wounded man’s pained gasps, because _no_. That was not happening.

His hand was down before he knew it, wrapped around the butt of the Colt and pulling the revolver free of its holster- his feet were moving with no input from his brain- he was running in the space of half a step but he was too far, too slow, the wolf was moving in-

Daryl _rolled_ , uncurling himself with oil-slick grace, the crossbow coming up- it was still pointed down, nose at the dirt, but the hunter twisted his grip and slammed the butt of the heavy weapon straight into the werewolf’s open mouth. The impact came with a wet-sounding _crack_ that Rick knew from his childhood brawls with Shane and later, less-friendly brawls with uncooperative suspects, and it was so viscerally sickening that Rick winced in instinctive sympathy despite himself. The wolf fell back, its triumphant howl twisting into the pained, shocked whimpers of a kicked dog, its clawed hands flying up to paw uselessly at its bloody mouth, its muzzle looked slightly twisted and _wrong_.

The hunter folded in on himself, collapsing with slow grace, the crossbow jarred out of his hands by the impact with the wolf’s face and lying uselessly out of reach. Rick was there before he hit the ground, standing between him and the recovering wolf- bone twisting back into place, realigning itself- gun up and aimed.

It was too close to be anything other than point-blank, so of course he missed. The wolf’s eyes snapped open and it snarled and turned into the shot even as Rick pulled the trigger, then jerked back again, thrown back with the impact from the bullet, its left shoulder a bloody, ruined crater- but not its heart, close but not close enough, anything else it’ll just shrug off and get back up-

He hadn’t seen the effect silver had on werewolves, not really. He’d seen Randall’s dead body, of course, the neat little hole punched through his heart stopping him as blowing away half his brain hadn’t. But he’d never seen _this_ , the twisting and blackening of flesh, the smell of acid burns and the sound of sizzling like bacon on a hot pan, the touch of the silver spreading out from the bullet itself and corrupting the flesh around it like watching the spread of a major infection in fast-forward. Instead of pulling the trigger again, and making this one count, Rick hesitated, momentarily distracted by the sight.

The werewolf rolled up and away, kicking off with its feet and _gone_ , just that fast- Rick started forward after it for half a step, his finger tightening on the trigger before he checked himself. He wasn’t going to catch it, wasn’t going to get a good enough shot to kill it. Instead, he let it go, and turned back to Daryl.

The hunter wasn’t unconscious, despite everything- probably would’ve been a blessing, Rick thought darkly. He dropped to his knees and reached out with one hand, uselessly, not sure where to touch, if he would even be allowed to. Daryl had curled in on himself, hand pressed against the injuries, his breath ragged and broken with groans. There was no blood in his mouth, no wet bubbling as he breathed, so the wolf hadn’t hit his lungs. It had aimed low, and hit him only with a glancing blow as it passed by, and for one moment, Rick let himself hope-

Then Daryl gasped and arched his back, shivering with pain, and Rick could see the blood on his shirt, staining the ground beneath him, and no, no, this was _bad_. He rocked back on his heels, fumbling his phone out of his pocket, and had gotten so far as dialing the first number before a hand reached out to wrap around his wrist, smearing blood on his skin and into his shirt sleeve.

“No ambulance,” Daryl said, voice stronger and clearer than it had any right to be, and the surge of desperate, soul-wrenching relief through Rick was strong enough that he let the hunter pull his hand down and away. “No hospital.”

“Daryl,” Rick began, and let himself stop there, because every argument he could make was already plainly obvious. The hunter’s eyes squeezed shut and he turned away, pressing back against the car, his jaw set and his breath rasping in fast little pants though his nose. Rick could feel the movement in him, separate pieces shifting and pushing, but he didn’t know Daryl was actually trying to _stand up_ until he was already halfway up, his hold on Rick’s wrist going from restraining to clinging, grip tight enough to grind bone together.

“No hospital,” Daryl said again, once he was upright, hardly leaning against the car at all. “Don’t need it, ‘ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding,” Rick began, turning his captured hand in Daryl’s grip to show him the blood smeared over his skin. He still couldn’t find the words, couldn’t quite believe this was even in debate at all, that Daryl was arguing with him over this, that Rick was _letting_ him.

“ ‘M not _dying_ ,” Daryl said, and took a careful, deep breath, pain flashing over his face before his expression shuttered. His free hand came up again, pressing briefly over the gashes in his side, skating up his chest to probe with gentle fingers at the back of his head. He still hadn’t let go of Rick’s hand yet. “No hospital.”

He meant it, too, Rick knew him well enough to see that in every line of his body- no hospitals, no matter what, he’d fight tooth and nail and kill himself long before Rick got him through the front door. Stubborn son of a bitch.

“Well, we’re goin’ somewhere, you need help,” Rick said, and he was going to stand his ground on that one. He wasn’t having Daryl die on him, not now, not when there was still too much between them-

He hesitated for a moment as an idea occurred to him, looking down at the hand still wrapped around his wrist, at the scabbed-over scratches across the back of it. Maybe…

“Best hope he’s close enough to help,” Rick muttered, turning his free hand over to free up his phone, tapping in another number, awkward and unfamiliar, Daryl’s grip on his wrist an unwavering band of pressure.

“Yeah,” Daryl muttered, like he had any clue what Rick was talking about, and Rick finally twisted his hand free, leaving Daryl both hands to press over the wounds. He turned and paced a few steps away from the hunter, dropping his head as he listened to the ringing over the phone. His hand was shaking, now that he no longer had Daryl holding it still.

That had been too close, too close- and Daryl was still leaving, god damn it, they weren’t done here yet. They weren’t _done_. 

He listened to the phone ring and closed his eyes against the bright dawn sunlight, the world coming alive around him, the only part of it that mattered right now still standing behind him, and tried to remember how to breathe.

\-----

_June 24th, 7.12 a.m.  
The Greene farm_

There was blood on the police cruiser parked in their driveway.

Maggie practically stood in her seat to see it as she rounded the curve of the too-long driveway, bracing her left foot against the floorboard so she could keep her right leg loose and didn’t accidentally put any pressure on the gas pedal. After a moment she collapsed back into her seat, her jaw set and her hands wrapped white-knuckle-tight around the steering wheel, her eyes blinking just a little too fast, trying to erase the new memory of rust-red smeared on the white metal paneling of the passenger’s side door. Not a lot of it, thank God- but enough.

Next to her, her father gave her a long, searching look, then turned back to his medical kit, sorting through the supplies inside for the fourth time. He had no human drugs or medicines, nothing that would be useful save a needle and thread and gauze bandages, but he liked to keep his hands busy.

“Hey,” a familiar, beloved voice said, and there was a hand on her shoulder, a warm presence behind her as Glenn leaned forward against her seat. “He’s all right. Rick would’ve taken him to a real hospital if he were that bad off.” He paused for a single, delicate moment, then slid a glance over to Hershel. “No offense.”

“They should have gone to a real hospital in the first place,” Hershel said sternly, scolding the two men even before they were within earshot.

“I guess Daryl can be kind of stubborn,” Glenn offered, almost apologetically, and Maggie smiled despite herself. Glenn had put the phone on speaker when Rick had called, and Daryl had been arguing in the background, Rick pulling away from the phone long enough to shut him up with short, clipped words that Maggie hadn’t quite been able to make out, and that was the only reason she hadn’t broken more than a few driving laws to get here. She was worried, more worried than she should be for a man she’d known all of a week, who she’d spent less than a day with.

“Maggie,” Hershel said, calm and steady, as she pulled up next to the cruiser. Rick was already out, standing next to the passenger door, thumbs hooked in his belt- he was a study in long lean lines, dark denim and washed-out flannel against the pale dust of the driveway and white wood of the house, and there was blood on him, on his hands, on his shirt, darkening his jeans to proper black over his knees. Maggie grabbed for the gear shift to put the car into park and missed twice, her hand suddenly shaking, her confidence in Daryl’s welfare suddenly shattered, because that was a lot of blood, more than she knew any one person could safely loose-

“Maggie,” Hershel said again, touching her shoulder, dragging her back into the moment and grounding her there. She started, shook herself.

“I’ll help you get him inside,” she said, as Rick opened the cruiser’s passenger door and leaned down into the car. “Glenn shouldn’t be puttin’ too much weight on that leg.” He could walk properly now, the limp barely noticeable, and the last of the bandages had come off the day after Randall died, but it still wasn’t a good idea to push it. Besides, she needed to be the one to do this.

“All right,” Hershel said, calm and steady, as Glenn opened his door and jumped out and half-ran over to the other vehicle. “But after that, why don’t you and Rick make us some breakfast? They’ll both need to eat, get their strength back, and it’ll help keep Rick busy.” He wrapped his hand around her fingers as he said it- he’d noticed the shaking too, and he wasn’t going to call her out on it, but making breakfast would be keeping more than just Rick too busy to hover and worry.

She nodded her agreement as she unbuckled her seat belt, made it out of the car just as Rick and Glenn got Daryl out and mostly upright. His face was waxy-pale and there was even more blood on him, staining his hands and smeared up his neck and onto his face, and _why the hell_ had Rick agreed to not taking him to the hospital-

Maggie was there in two heartbeats, ducking under Daryl’s left arm, pressing her shoulder gently against his chest as he staggered into her. He had what looked like Rick’s deputy uniform shirt wrapped around his abdomen, bundled up and pressed tight just above his right hip, where his shirt was torn and stained the most with blood. It could be worse, Maggie told herself- he was on his feet and still mostly lucid, both good signs, even if he and Rick were wearing the majority of his blood. It could be worse. Rick wouldn’t’ve brought him here, to a veterinarian, if he thought there was even the slightest chance of Daryl dying.

“He wasn’t…” Glenn began, as Rick stepped forward, carefully slinging Daryl’s right arm over his shoulder, trying not to push or pull or put pressure on the wound. He was holding- Maggie did a double-take, just to be sure- yeah, he was holding Daryl’s crossbow, the bulky weapon awkward in his hands, strap dangling uselessly and Glenn’s fingers shying away the trigger, despite the lack of arrows in the firing slot and the string not being drawn back. He looked like he was trying to hold it while touching it as little as possible, and after a moment, Maggie saw why- there was blood on that, too, smearing half-dry flakes over Glenn’s fingers.

“Bit?” Daryl finished for him, dark and wry and amused, as only one laughing at something so completely not funny could be. He tried to shift his weight off Maggie and into Rick and recoiled with a pained breath, sending Maggie staggering under the sudden weight- but she shifted, braced herself, and bore up under him, holding him up. “Nah,” the hunter continued, as if he hadn’t even noticed the little shuffle. “Not this time.”

“There’s not gonna be a next time,” Rick said, steel in his voice. He looked around Daryl to Maggie, gave her a nod and jerked his chin to indicate she should go first.

“Did you get it? Him?” Glenn pressed, wincing a little at the pronouns. Hershel moved ahead of Maggie, up the porch stairs to unlock the door, and Maggie shuffled after him. Daryl weighed a metric fuckton- probably all monster-killing muscle- and she staggered for a step or two before she got herself steadied. Daryl seemed mostly capable of carrying his own weight, but he had dizzy spells and weak lurches that left him leaning into her for balance.

“No,” Rick said, simple and cold, and Glenn gave Maggie a wide-eyed ‘yikes’ look and shut up.

The bedrooms were all upstairs, so Hershel pointed Maggie to the couch in the family room and she steered their little group over to it. Daryl dropped down faster than she thought wisely necessary, but aside from a brief shiver of pain over his face, he didn’t show that it bothered him. Maggie stood uselessly over him, feeling suddenly too light without him leaning on her, and Hershel was pulling a chair over next to the couch and giving her a significant look as he sat down, and- oh, right.

“C’mon,” she said, reaching to touch Rick’s arm. “You should probably wash up a little.”

“Glenn can help me,” Hershel said, even as Rick opened his mouth to protest. He was peeling away the bunched-up shirt as he said it, and Maggie flinched and looked away at the briefest flash of torn skin and blood so thick it was black. She was a farm girl, she didn’t flinch at blood and injuries, but that wasn’t the same. Glenn was looking a little green too, dark eyes nearly falling out of his head as he gaped- but Rick just set his jaw and looked away.

“Do you need- rubbing alcohol? Or something?” Glenn asked, and practically fell over himself as he fled the room, presumably to go search for _or something_.

Maggie dared to touch Rick again, this time getting a gentle grip on his arm, and steered him out of the room into the hallway. Rick went, eventually, following where she led him, shaking her off only when they passed by the entryway and he ducked away to rescue Daryl’s crossbow from its banishment in the corner by the front door where Glenn had left it.

“He’ll be all right,” Maggie said as she headed into the kitchen, Rick close behind her. She went over to the fridge, opened it and looked inside. She’d given blood before, at Red Cross blood drives and one or two local blood drives organized at her college before she’d dropped out, and she knew what they normally gave out there- cookies and juice, sugar and protein- but that was for donating a pint, not losing half your blood volume. She took out eggs, reasoning that Daryl would probably have a hard time keeping anything down at first. He hadn’t looked to be in shock, but best to play it safe.

“It snuck up on us,” Rick said suddenly. He dragged one of the chairs away from the kitchen table with his foot and collapsed into it, and he suddenly looked exhausted- bags under his eyes, face graven with wrinkles, hands shaking. He gently lifted the crossbow and put it on the table beside him, almost reverentially. “Was a minute or two after dawn, I thought we were safe-” He shook his head and groaned, dragging his hands down over his face. Maggie tried not to grimace at the faint streaks of red left across his left cheekbone.

“Well, it’s over, right?” Maggie asked as she dug out a frying pan. “No more werewolf until next month?”

“Yeah,” Rick said tiredly. He reached out to touch at the crossbow, like it was a touchstone, like it was an extension of the man in the other room, the man Rick wasn’t being allowed to hover over- then he blinked and frowned and leaned forward, lifting the bow up and peering closely at it for a moment. Then he let it drop again and rose to his feet once more. “You got a pair of pliers ‘round here?” he asked.

“Toolbox in the shed out back,” Maggie said, jerking her chin to indicate the proper direction, and Rick left in silence. She focused on melting the butter in the pan, swirling it around so it coated the pan’s surface evenly, then started cracking eggs into it. She stopped at three, figuring Daryl could pick at it and Rick could have whatever was left. She didn’t think any of the rest of them would be all that hungry.

The eggs were starting to fry up when Rick came back. “Know whose this is?” he asked, holding up a battered old tobacco tin.

“My grandfather, probably,” Maggie said, turning away from the eggs to step closer to the cop and study his prize. “Dad won’t mind if you take it,” she added, a bit of an understatement.

“Thanks,” Rick said distractedly. He dropped the tin onto the table and picked the crossbow up, turning it so it was pointed towards her but down, aiming towards her hip. “Hold onto this for a moment,” he said, and Maggie grabbed onto the bow’s body, awkwardly angling her hold around its curved arms. Rick focused on the butt of the bow, lifting it up a little more with one hand, then bringing the other up and setting the teeth of the pliers he’d brought in around something Maggie didn’t have a good angle to see. 

It took him both hands to pull it out, combined with some up-down, side-to-side wiggling and a few good hard tugs that nearly yanked the bow straight out of Maggie’s hands. Finally, it came free, and Maggie caught the bow as it started to fall while Rick staggered back, off-balance from the sudden lack of resistance. He held up the pliers, which had something long and white in its grip.

“What is that?” Maggie asked, stepping closer. The eggs were starting to overcook, but she couldn’t look away- she already knew the answer to that question, could recognize the item by its long curve, its tapered point.

Rick turned the pliers in his hand, rolling the thing. “Werewolf tooth,” he said finally. “It must’ve come out when he bashed its mouth.” He blinked and looked away to Maggie, who hastily dropped the bow to the table and grabbed at the tobacco tin, fumbling it for a moment before she manage to snap it open. Rick carefully dropped the tooth into it, and Maggie snapped the tin shut fast and dropped it to the table, like the tooth might try to leap out and bite them all by itself.

The eggs were starting to burn. Maggie didn’t even try to rescue them, just grabbed the pan off the stove and dropped it in the sink and turned on the faucet. Toast. She could do toast. Nobody would want anything meat-related right now. Daryl was saying some very rude things in the other room, his voice strained and tight like he was speaking through gritted teeth, Glenn underscoring it with an apologetic-sounding babble, and Maggie supposed she ought to be grateful Daryl was feeling good enough to bitch at them-

Rick’s hand caught hers as she reached for the bread, and it was only then she realized it was shaking again. She looked at him and saw- she didn’t even know what, all written on his face. He didn’t let go, so she used his hold to pull him in close, wrapping her free arm around him and pressing her face into his shirt and choking back on the sob that was trying to tear itself free of her throat. Maggie Greene was not the sort of woman who cried over near-misses and could-have-beens.

The hand on hers tightened to bone-breaking for a moment. Then it let go, and Rick wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pressed his face into her hair, and it only then occurred to Maggie that she wasn’t the only one needing a little reassurance at the moment. These men had risked their lives for her, Maggie thought, and wondered how much more they’d risked for each other.

“He’s fine,” Maggie said to Rick’s shirt. “He’ll be fine. Dad would’ve knocked him out with a horse tranquilizer and loaded him up in the back of the truck to take him to the hospital by now if he didn’t think he could handle it.”

“Yeah,” Rick said, a bit thickly. He let her go and stepped away, dropping back into his chair and reaching out to touch the crossbow again, resting his hand on it like he just needed to _know_ it was still there.

Toast. Toast, and juice, and coffee- she could do those things. She could stay out of the way and still be helpful. She grabbed at the bread, her hand steadier now, even if there were hints of red pressed into the lines of her skin. He’ll be all right.

He’ll be all right.

\-----

The motel stood a good twenty minutes out of even the furthest fringes of the town, lost into the woods in the foothills, a no-tell motel that was half a step above the pay-by-the-hour places where respectable businessmen took their pretty young secretaries for a long lunch break. He’d been careful to get a room facing the forest, so it was a straight run from the treeline to his door, minimal risk of anybody catching him in his half-shifted state. Very wolfish whimpers of pain warred with human screams, twisting in his throat and scraping roughly over his freshly-healed jawbone. The empty socket where his left canine had once been still oozed blood and he couldn’t stop touching his tongue to it, as if to confirm it still wasn’t there, wasn’t growing back- he was going to be a one-fanged werewolf, that wouldn’t look stupid at all.

He could _taste_ the silver in his blood, fucking hunters, he needed to get it out out _out_ -

He hit the door at a run, smashing it off its hinges and jumping over it uncaringly as it fell to the ground with a _whoomp_ they probably heard up in the front office, if anybody was awake enough to care. He had more important things to focus on- stupid hands, caught between claws and fingers, fumbling uselessly at his bag, and he _was not_ dealing with a giant gaping hole in his shoulder all month long, that bullet was coming out now so he could at least start to heal before he shifted back all the way. He hooked two claws into the fabric of the bag and dragged it off the cheap bed he wouldn’t have actually slept in even if someone paid him, spilling everything over the ground.

Clothes, gun, wallet, not interesting, _knife_ -

He grabbed up the knife, wrapping his hand awkwardly around the grip for a moment- he could feel the sun coming up, burning along his skin like acid, burning the _other_ away- he dug the tip of the knife into the wound, pressing in until there was the soft _chink_ of metal hitting metal.

A minute or two later, mostly filled with exquisite agony, the bullet popped out, a mess of mushed silver and crumpled brass body. The burning in his blood stopped almost immediately and he breathed, dropping the knife and hunching over, pressing the heel of his hand over the bullet hole so he could feel the fabric of his flesh start to knit itself back together. The closeness of the silver itched along his skin like ants marching up his spine and he snarled at the crumpled bullet, grabbing up the knife again so he could dig its tip under the bloody, mangled mess and flip it away from him.

It still hurt like a bitch when the last bits of the _other_ melted away, leaving him just a naked, bloody man, looking like he’d just strolled out of a horror movie. He lifted his head and peeled his hand away from his shoulder, wincing at the half-healed injury.

Fucking hunters, hell. That hadn’t been a hunter, that had been a cop, an _amateur_.

And he was going to pay.


	22. theft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of last chapter, this story hit one hundred thousand words. I am feeling very proud of myself for this. I should do something special for this ridiculously awesome landmark- I have never written anything this long before, didn't even know I had that kind of attention span in me- but I am fresh out of ideas.
> 
> This chapter is what is colloquially known as the calm before the storm, the first brewings of which can be seen on the horizon at the end of this. There will be two or three more chapters after this one, maybe four, depending on how much wrap-up I give this monster. It's... I don't even have the words to express how huge this thing has been, and how much I'll miss it, and all of you. But it's not done yet, so I will see you next week.

_June 24th, 10.35 a.m.  
The Greene farm_

It would be easier if everything didn’t hurt. Even _breathing_ hurt, every expansion of his lungs putting unfriendly pressure on the neat rows of stitches curving over his right flank. The back of his head also hurt, a dull, throbbing ache that came with a good solid crack on the skull. Hershel had taken a look at it after he was done stitching up Daryl’s side, and aside from a none-too-subtle comment about how head injuries probably interfered with clear thinking, he’d had nothing to say about it.

“We have Tylenol,” Maggie said apologetically, already fumbling the lid off the bottle with a loud rattle of pills. She’d brought him toast and bacon and orange juice, enough of all of it that Daryl was honestly feeling a little sick, and all he wanted right now was to dry-swallow a handful of Tylenol and pass out again and not think about how badly he’d fucked things up.

He’d never destroyed a friendship like this before, had never had a friendship to _be_ destroyed before. God damn it, he’d been trying to leave for exactly this reason, so he could avoid letting the shit hit the fan so spectacularly, so he would be gone before someone started thinking maybe there was more going on here. So no one got hurt.

He should’ve gone after that spirit the day after it attacked Rick, gotten the cop back home and out of his life, out of his _world_ , before it sunk its claws into the man. So much for that.

“How’s Rick?” he asked as he reached out, carefully taking the four small pills from her hand. He managed to swallow two of them, but choked on the chalky taste of the coating and had to take a mouthful of orange juice to wash the other two down.

“He’s fine,” Maggie said, pulling up the chair her father had been sitting in and taking a seat. She took the glass of juice away when Daryl started to put it on the end table and quickly found he couldn’t reach it without popping at least a dozen stitches. After a moment of thoughtful silence, she amended, “He seems kind of distracted, but he’s not hurt or anything.”

Daryl could remember, mostly, the unthinking movement of planting the crossbow’s butt in the werewolf’s face- remembered the sound of a gunshot going off and a tall figure standing over him. He rubbed his hand over his face and reached down to tug at the blanket Hershel had given him to make up for his lack of clothes. It was an old knitted throw that had likely been lying over the back of the couch before being moved out of the triage area, loosely knit and worn with age, far too short to cover him completely. His knees were bruised and scraped raw, too scabbed over to be only a few hours old. He didn’t even remember what had happened.

“Great,” he muttered. He was picking at the throw again, pulling on its loose threads, slowly unraveling the thing until Maggie slapped his hand away. “Didn’t kill it, did he,” he said, not really a question.

“No,” Maggie said. She kicked one foot out, nudging the couch cushion under Daryl’s feet with her toe. “He had something more important to worry about,” she added dryly, and Daryl curled into himself, turning his head and pressing his face against the arm of the couch. Something more important, his ass- this was why you didn’t take civilians on a hunt, no matter how qualified they seemed. They just didn’t _get it_.

Finally, after a few minutes, he lifted his head again, this time looking down the length of his own torso, to the bulky, awkward form of the bandages under the blanket.

“ S’not as bad as it could’ve been,” he said, holding a hand over the injury, lining his fingers up with the long track marks under the bandages.

“It’s over, right?” Maggie asked. “Last night was the full moon. It won’t shift tonight, so it’s over.”

Daryl grunted and pushed himself up on his elbow. He grabbed the frilly, lacy-edged pillow that had been below his head and kept migrating down into the crevice between his neck and the arm of the couch, pushed it back up and brutally punched it once or twice because he could, then dropped back down. Every movement echoed with brilliant little needle stabs of pain all up and down his side, but it was going to hurt anyways, so it wasn’t like that made much difference.

“Well,” Maggie said, as soon as Daryl was settled, “at least this means you two have time to talk.” She said _talk_ in that terrifying way women had, that way that said they had one shot to get this right or she’d take over and do it for them. Daryl had only ever heard that tone used on whipped boyfriends and husbands of many years, had never had it directed at him before, and could only stare at her, feeling rather remarkably like the deer in the deer-in-the-headlights analogy.

“Ain’t got anythin’ to talk about,” he said finally, gruffly, because she wasn’t actually his sister and he didn’t actually owe her anything.

Maggie just _looked_ at him, her expression that of a woman smelling the unmistakable scent of bullshit, and Daryl grunted and closed his eyes and draped his arm over his face, the angle awkward as he tried not to pull on the stitches. He’d been hurt worse than this before, had closer calls, lost more blood- the real sucky part was recovery, the countless days and endless weeks of checking his breathing and minding his movements and carefully testing his limits and the agony and irritating setbacks of overstepping them. Maybe he should change his plans, stay in town a few days longer, until it no longer felt like his skin was coming unraveled with every breath he took.

“Is it because he let the wolf get away?” Maggie asked. “Are you pissed at him because he was too worried about you to finish it off?”

“No,” Daryl said, his voice muffled by his wrist. Then he moved his arm, peeking at her around his wrist. “Never said I was pissed,” he added, annoyed with her for some reason- annoyed, and slightly alarmed, because if they sat here and played pin the tail on the donkey with Daryl’s issues, she’d probably bull’s-eye more than a few. Daryl made _having issues_ into an art form.

“He is,” she told him, and took a sip of Daryl’s orange juice. Daryl grunted and dropped his arm again, blocking her from sight. Well, wasn’t that good to know. “What’d you do, then?” Maggie asked, nudging the couch cushion with her foot again.

_Told him I was leavin’, kissed back when he kissed me, then nearly got myself killed by a werewolf_. Pick one, any one.

“Ain’t you got someone else to bug?” he asked mournfully. A moment later there was the soft, dull thud of glass on wood, and Maggie’s hand wrapping around his, pulling it away so she could see his face. She was biting at her lower lip, no hint of the almost-playfulness from moments ago on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out as if to touch his face and withdrawing when he instinctively turned his head away. “I’m sorry,” she said again, pressing her fingers against his instead, and now she looked seconds away from crying, what the hell. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said, as if that explained any of this, as if he owed her something, or she had some sort of claim over him.

He’d never really stuck around after saving someone’s life before, was always too busy hiding monster bodies and making tracks out of town. He didn’t know how to treat her, how to behave around her- and if it was confusing for him, it was probably doubly so for her, when her daily routine hardly included monsters and life-or-death situations.

He’d taken that from Maggie, too, just like he’d taken that from Rick, and it made him sick, made him hate himself more than just a little bit. It took every ounce of self-control he could scrape together to not get up and walk out, wrap that stupid throw around his waist- his clothes had been confiscated and most likely destroyed, and new ones had not been offered, probably to discourage his leaving AMA- and just not stop walking until he fell on his face and maybe even died on the spot because he didn’t deserve this, not any of it, didn’t deserve Maggie fussing over him or Hershel stitching him up or Rick doing any one of the thousand things he’d done for Daryl, up to and including kissing him.

Which wasn’t the problem, really. He knew he didn’t deserve any of it, had known all his life he didn’t deserve any of the things normal people took for granted. The problem was he was starting to think maybe he could have it anyways.

“I was thinkin’ about leavin’,” Daryl said, and Maggie tightened her grip on his hand to downright painful.

“Leaving Ashlyn,” she half-asked. “Leaving us?” Leaving Rick, she didn’t say, but it was there in the silence.

“Yeah,” he agreed tonelessly, careful not to look at her- he owed her nothing, he owed her _nothing_. “Bad luck, havin’ a hunter hang around too long. Things come lookin’ for us.” Things like werewolves if they were lucky, something worse if they weren’t. There was a reason very few hunters made it to retirement.

“We seem to be handling the _things_ pretty well,” Maggie said after a moment, and there she went again, using the plural when she clearly meant one person in specific.

“ ‘S too dangerous,” Daryl said, and the hand curled around his twisted, short nails digging into the skin of his wrist until he grunted a protest and jerked his hand away and finally looked at Maggie.

“Ignorance is bliss, right?” Maggie asked, and she was properly mad now. “You think not knowing these things are out there will protect us from them? I thought _your entire job_ was based on the exact opposite. You think running away now will protect Rick?” She gestured with a broad sweep of one arm to indicate the kitchen, the house, the whole world. “He shot a werewolf, Daryl. If there are _things_ coming after you, there’ll be _things_ coming after him, too.”

_He’s not a hunter_ , Daryl wanted to protest- except yes, he was. A new one, still unsure of himself, still finding his footing, but a hunter all the same. And whatever it was that marked hunters to the hunted- some scent, some mark, maybe just something as simple as one predator’s instinctive recognition of another- Rick had it.

“Besides,” Maggie added, while Daryl was still busy processing this, “he’s a grown man and a cop. You can’t just treat him like a kid and expect him to not be angry about it.”

“I’m not treatin’ him like a kid,” Daryl protested unthinkingly, and winced even before Maggie could point out the giant lie in those words.

“You’re making decisions that directly affect him, because you want to protect him like he can’t do that for himself,” Maggie said anyway, merciless. “That’s what Dad and Glenn were doing to me, remember? The night you- the night Randall died.” And she had come to Daryl for clarity, for honesty, for a lack of bias. Any chance Daryl had of keeping things quiet were fast going by the wayside, because she was giving him another _look_ , similar to the earlier look but sharper, keener. Figuring things out.

“Fine,” Daryl said uselessly, pointlessly. He looked away again. “I’ll think about it, a’right? Can’t promise I’ll change my mind.”

“No promises,” Maggie agreed. He grunted at her and tugged at the throw again, growling in irritation and jerking it back down when it hiked up over his hip. Maggie watched his struggles with a smile, and when he paused for a moment to steady his breathing before the throbbing in his side got worked up into true pain, she nudged the couch cushion again. “Want me to get you a real blanket?” she asked.

“ _Yes_ ,” Daryl snarled, and the girl actually laughed at him as she stood up and moved away, presumably heading upstairs to fetch a proper-sized blanket from the linen closet. He felt like he’d passed some sort of test, which was ridiculous, although not as ridiculous as that vague sense of happiness in him at having passed it. Regardless of what they thought now, these people didn’t actually want him around, and would quickly learn that if he did stay. But-

But Maggie was happy, and Daryl did that. And he didn’t have to kill anything to make it happen, either.

He could live with that, he thought idly, making _gimme_ grabbing motions as Maggie came back into the room, a lightweight blanket in her hands. He could certainly deal with making people happy in ways that didn’t involve bloodshed or burning bodies in the woods. He should still leave- was still going to leave, he reminded himself sternly, every time he found himself hesitating, doubting. It wasn’t safe for anyone and if he had to treat them like children to protect them, fine. They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what else was out there. But- but.

No promises. But maybe.

\-----

_June 24th, 12.02 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

The front door to Rick’s house was sitting wide open.

The morning’s jaunt had started out as a desperate need to get out of the house, to breathe fresh air and try to clear out the smell of blood and silver that seemed to be lingering in Rick’s throat- to put some distance between himself and Daryl. As the hours crawled by, the hunter became increasingly coherent, if immobile, and if he and Rick stayed under the same roof for too long, they would eventually have to actually interact. And Rick had absolutely no idea what to do at that point, what to say, how to handle any of it.

Which had led them here, eventually, after a bit of grocery shopping and an hour spent prowling the woods around the parking lot at Hatlin’s, looking for clues- Rick didn’t honestly expect to find anything, but it got him out of the house. Here, at Daryl’s house to pick up a change of clothes for him- here, at Rick’s house, where the front door was sitting wide open when it shouldn’t have been. Rick had been rather obsessive over that point, carefully maintaining the façade that he was still living in his house- parking his cruiser in his driveway, staying inside during the daylight hours- people in small towns _talked_ , even in the days of Wi-Fi and Netflix it was like they literally had nothing else to do with their lives, and Rick didn’t need that particular bit of gossip making the rounds.

“Um.” Glenn said, biting at his lower lip and leaning forward in his seat, dipping his head and trying to follow the line of Rick’s stare. “Something wrong?” he asked, gaze skittering blankly over the landscape, unable to pinpoint the issue.

The cruiser was sitting in the middle of the road, half-blocking both lanes, so Rick pulled up onto the curb in front of his house and killed the engine. “Maybe,” he said. He took a moment to unthread Daryl’s housekey from his key ring and handed it over. “Up the stairs, second door on the left,” he said, holding the key out. Glenn stared at him for several long moments before he took the key.

“You’re not gonna go do something stupid, right?” he asked plaintively. “I mean, we literally just got done patching Daryl up, we really don’t need both of you too busted up to move.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rick said, smiling despite himself. “Go on.”

Glenn went, albeit with a groan and a roll of his eyes that made it plenty clear he was very aware that Rick was full of shit. Rick waited until he was inside before he popped the trunk and got out of the car. There was a tire iron in the trunk, under the fold-up flap of carpeting, nestled in the hollow of the spare tire. Rick took it out, rolled it over and tested its heft in his hand, then pulled his gun out of his holster with his free hand and headed up towards his house.

The air in Rick’s house was still and hot, tasting faintly of sourness and rot and thick with humidity- he tried to remember what all he’d had sitting out that night, what seemed like an eternity ago now- a glass of milk, he was pretty sure, and maybe some leftovers from dinner that hadn’t made it into the fridge before the spirit had attacked, but nothing that should have caused this scent of death and rot. He eased one step over the threshold and into the house proper, then two, iron in one hand and silver in the other- he knew full well that if the werewolf really was hunting hunters, that morning had secured Rick spot number one on the wolf’s _to kill with fire_ list.

He moved through the living room, sticking close to the walls and clearing every room, every corner, every turn before he moved. By the time he made it to the kitchen, he was breathing through his mouth and trying not to gag. He ducked into the kitchen, twisting around and put his back to the wall and raised his gun-

\- then lowered it again, the empty air of the kitchen clearly not intimidated. There was nothing here, no werewolf, not even the chilled stirrings of a spirit. There was, however, the source of the smell- the kitchen table had been shoved violently aside and had jammed up against the refrigerator, pushing the door open a bit. Rick moved over, waving his hand carefully through the gap and feeling the lukewarm air inside the fridge, and winced at the thought of what this was doing to his electric bill. He pushed the table away and closed the refrigerator door properly.

It hadn’t been like that the last he’d seen of it, and spirits didn’t seem the type to screw with stuff simply because they could. Rick hesitated in the doorway, looking back into the kitchen. It had been not even six hours since he’d shot the wolf, and it took a lot longer than that for a fridge to go warm and everything in it to spoil. This had happened days ago.

He made a point of closing the front door behind him as he left, pulling on the knob and trying to wedge it into place. Then he cut across the yard and barreled up the porch steps and pushed the front door to Daryl’s house wide open, pivoting on the spot and tracing his fingers over the wards etched into the frame.

Intact, untouched, exactly as he’d last seen them. He didn’t know why he expected anything different. Paranoia, maybe- but hunters were Olympic gold medalists in paranoia, no way they’d trust their lives to wards that could be so easily compromised.

“Okay,” Glenn said, sudden and loud and a little too close, and Rick jerked and swung around too fast and nearly took the kid’s head off with the tire iron. Glenn yelped and reeled back, staggering back a step or two, the hand not full of a bundle of clothes coming up to wave wildly in the air between them, like he was warding off an attack. “Whoa!” he said. “Just- calm down! What the hell is going on, Rick?”

“Nothin’,” Rick said, far too fast, then immediately shook his head, acknowledging that as one of the least convincing lies he’d ever told anyone. “Nothin’ anymore,” he amended. “Think the werewolf might’ve been in my house.”

“Shit,” Glenn breathed, instantly surging forward again, pushing past Rick to lean through the doorway and crane his neck around so he could stare at Rick’s house. “Really? Why?”

“It was on the farm the night Randall died,” Rick pointed out, working it out himself even as he spoke. “It saw me then. Maybe it was checking out the competition.” Trying to see what it was up against, what it had to go through to get to Daryl. Presumably, it had not been impressed.

Glenn stared some more, then straightened up and pinned Rick with a suspicious look. “You don’t seem nearly freaked out enough by this,” he said, and Rick could only shrug. He wasn’t freaked out by it at all- his house would never again feel safe or secure, no matter how tightly he closed the windows or how many locks he put on the doors, not even if he carved the same warding into his doorframes and windowsills as Daryl’s house boasted- he had invited evil in, and it had come home to roost, and the house would never feel the same. When this was over- when he had everything sorted out with Daryl- he was probably going to end up selling the place. He couldn't live there anymore, couldn’t let his children live there.

The werewolf had been in his _house_ , had been only a hundred feet away, had maybe been there when Rick and Daryl were next door, possibly even when both of them had been asleep and vulnerable, only a single line of arcane symbols carved into wood to keep it out- not magic, Daryl had said, just a focus point, but it sure as hell felt like magic now, like jumping off a skyscraper and being caught by a spiderweb- it shouldn’t work, it couldn’t have possibly worked, but it had.

No wonder hunters were all paranoid, Rick thought, and felt a little sick.

“We should get back,” he said, pushing Glenn gently out the door. Back, get back, the Greene house didn’t have warding, the Greene house didn’t have anything but a few silver arrows for a crossbow, and the only man who had any practice with it was too injured to even pick it up. Rick was a fool for leaving, they’d been gone too long already- he herded Glenn to the car, nipping at his heels like an overexcited border collie. He knew nothing had happened- the wolf had no reason to think they’d go to Hershel for help, and probably wasn’t in any sort of shape to take a run at a pair of hunters anyways, no matter how badly injured one of them might be- but he felt itchy and antsy all the same.

He needed to talk to Daryl, and soon- they needed to straighten things out, to figure out what the hell was going on with them. Rick needed to know how to defend himself, if his monster encyclopedia really planned to leave town. He needed silver bullets and warding of his own, because he couldn’t just trust that the werewolf was gone, that there was nothing else out there, that nothing supernatural would wash up in King County just because the local hunter had pulled up stakes and bailed on them.

This wasn’t over yet.

\-----

_June 24th, 3.19 p.m.  
Atlanta_

Judith was crying again, her face scrunched up and red and shiny-slick with tears and drool and snot. Carl rubbed the slobber off her pacifier and tucked it into his pocket- he was, perhaps, a slightly evil older brother, but very few things were as distracting as a baby in full-on crying mode, and he would give it back when he was done- then ducked away.

“Mom,” he called as he wove through the house- he highly doubted she was inside or she would’ve come running already, but it was important to check. “Mom? _Mom_!”

The last one was delivered as he wrenched open the front door and stuck his head outside- then he choked, smacked in the face by the smell of smoke, coughing as Lori swore under her breath and fumbled something, dropping it and stepping on it firmly with one foot and holding her ground.

“Yes, Carl, what?” she demanded, frazzled and distracted, and Carl coughed again and stared down at her foot, at the black smear peeking out from under it.

“Were you smoking?” he asked, suddenly feeling very young- he knew why people who didn’t smoke might take it up, he wasn’t stupid- stress, for one. Anxiety, maybe. Certainly not because she wanted to look cool.

The guilt rose up his throat, thick and acidic. Not enough to change his mind, but close.

Lori shook her head almost compulsively, pushing her hair out of her eyes and looking away. She didn’t move- she couldn’t, not with Carl there, not until he was gone and she could clean up all evidence of her guilty little sin. “What’d you need, baby?” she asked, and Carl flinched a little at the endearment, feeling his wavering resolve harden again. _Baby_. Dad never called him _baby_.

Carl pushed the door open a little wider, Judith’s cries spilling out into the sticky-hot afternoon air. “She won’t stop,” he said, and Lori sighed.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, and Carl ducked inside, since he knew she wasn’t going to budge until he did. He moved away, stationing himself in the hallway leading to the bedrooms and listening- then ducked away when he heard his mother coo at his sister, heading down the hallway and into the master bedroom.

There was only one bus running between Atlanta and Ashlyn- he knew that for a fact, he’d spent hours searching bus schedules on his phone- Tuesdays and Fridays only, at noon. He needed seven dollars for bus fare and only had three to his name, which had led him to this, quite possibly the lowest point in his life so far.

Lori’s purse was lying on her bedside table. Carl stopped just inside her bedroom, listening to her soothe Judith and making sure they were both still in the kitchen, then darted over to her purse, picking with nervous, shaking fingers at the snap-latch. He had never stolen from his mother before- he wasn’t stealing, he would give it back, he just didn’t have the money for it right now. He just needed to be in Ashlyn, to show Dad that he wasn’t a kid anymore, that he could handle himself, that he didn’t need protecting like Judy did. That was all.

He skipped over the twenty and pulled out a five and hastily snapped her purse shut and jerked his hands away like it had burned him, crumpling up the bill and sticking it deep into his pocket. Bus fare, that was all, and he’d pay her back. She probably wouldn’t even know.

Judith was getting louder, not calmer, and there was guilt there too. Carl touched his fingers to her pacifier again, then ducked out of the bedroom, heading for the stairs at a clip just shy of a flat-out run. It was for a good cause- one hour-long bus ride, and he’d be with Dad, showing him that there was nothing to worry about, that Carl could look after himself. That was it, that was all.

“Hey,” he said, too loud, too smiley, as he help the pacifier up to Judith’s turnip-purple face. “Hey, look what I found!” She stopped for a second, for a heartbeat- then glommed onto his hand with both of hers and promptly began crying again, even as she tugged her stolen binky away from him and clutched it close.

He would fix this, would make it up to them. He would. He just had to prove himself to Dad first.

Tomorrow.


	23. wakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, guys, I am so sorry, I missed update day! I am so very, very sorry, but I was- still am, kinda- really sick, and basically slept through yesterday, and woke up in a panic today because I just knew I'd missed updating, and I'm so sorry. Next week will be on time, I promise.
> 
> Enough excuses, on with the story!

_June 24th, 3.34 p.m.  
The Greene farm_

“We need to talk,” Rick said, or started to say, as he strode into the family room. He cut himself off mid-word, however, and jerked forward with a startled noise, hands flailing out uselessly to grab but unsure of how to get a hold without hurting anything.

Daryl, halfway to his feet, waved Rick away impatiently with one hand, the other curled into a white-knuckled fist around the armrest on the couch. “ ‘M fine,” he said stubbornly, but didn’t object when Rick held out his hand in offering, instead grabbing it and using it to help pull himself to his feet. His too-pale face lost a little more color in the process, his free hand flying up to hover over, but not quite touch, the bandages on his right side- but he held himself upright easily, as if there were nothing wrong with him, as if he went hand-to-hand with a werewolf every day of the week. He hung his head for a moment, seemingly focused only on breathing, and Rick let him ride it out, slowly tightening his grip on Daryl’s hand but not daring to do more.

“Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you,” he said helplessly, uselessly.

“Need to take a piss,” the hunter replied. “Don’t think you can do that for me.” He pulled his hand away as he spoke, rubbing his palm against his thigh as if to wipe away the feeling of Rick’s touch, and Rick followed the motion with his eyes and let his gaze linger a little longer than was socially acceptable. Then he ducked around so he was to Daryl’s left side, his uninjured side, and the hunter gave him a sour look but let Rick catch him by the elbow and pull him in as they started moving.

There was a bathroom on the main floor, thankfully- strong as Daryl seemed to be right now, Rick didn’t think that would last longer than the first two stairs. The hunter let him hover obsessively close but held himself carefully apart, as if to prove he didn’t need the support even as he allowed it. He pulled ahead a little bit as they approached the bathroom, shaking Rick off again- then ducked into the bathroom and decisively slammed the door shut in Rick’s face. Rick blinked and reared back, staring at the wood paneling for a moment before he sighed and headed away, out to his car to grab the change of clothes he’d brought from Daryl’s house. By the time he made it back in, Daryl was standing over the couch again, looking down at the cushions with a vaguely apprehensive expression.

“Here,” Rick said, holding out the clothes. They had too much to talk about- the kiss, the attack, the wolf being in Rick’s house, the _kiss_ \- he didn’t know where to start. For a moment he watched blankly as Daryl struggled to put his shirt on, keeping his hands firmly to himself even as he itched to reach out and help. Then he sighed and looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he said finally- open enough to interpretation to cover all of it.

Daryl paused for a moment, then grabbed his jeans off the couch where he’d tossed them as he put on his shirt. He had less problems putting them on, although he did wince and sharply abort a couple of motions, and when he straightened up, he had the dizzied look of a man whose world was swimming, but it wore off fast. “Sorry for what,” he said, not a question. “Lettin’ the wolf get away, or the other part?”

_The other part_. Shit, this was not going to go well.

“I let the wolf go ‘cause it was him or you,” Rick said, unapologetic about that much, at least. Of all the things he would’ve done different, were he granted a chance to do the morning over, that was the one thing he _wouldn’t_ change. He sighed again, then grabbed the chair they’d brought into the room and sat down in it, watching as Daryl folded himself down onto the couch with the utmost caution. He sagged to the left, leaning on the arm of the couch, but he was sitting up and his eyes were bright and aware and even if he was still too pale at least there was no longer any rust-red splashed on his skin in contrast.

“The other part, then,” Daryl murmured, almost to himself, and Rick tried not to groan at the words. He’d thought- no, he knew Daryl had kissed him back, had held him close so he wouldn’t pull away- but wanting something and _wanting_ it were two entirely different things.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” Rick said, dragging the words out through gritted teeth, unwilling, lying. “I shouldn’t have…” What? Shouldn’t have what? Unable to finish that sentence, he abandoned it and went with a shift in the subject. “I was trying to show you, you don’t have to leave. You have somethin’ here, if you want it.” His voice grew quiet at the end, the words stilted and odd-sounding- he wasn’t good with talking, wasn’t good with emotions, but if he didn’t grow a spine and open his damn mouth, Daryl would leave, thinking he didn’t mean anything to anyone, and Rick couldn’t abide that.

“It’s dangerous,” Daryl said, dull and lifeless, his gaze going flat and still and shifting slightly away from Rick. “You don’t want me around. The wolf’s here ‘cause I am, remember?”

“You saved my life,” Rick said urgently, because it was very important that Daryl get this. “You saved my children’s lives. Maybe havin’ you around is dangerous, but _not_ havin’ you around seems dangerous too.” He frowned as Daryl looked away, ducked his head until he met Daryl’s gaze again and held it. “I’d rather have you around and deal with what comes than not,” he said, and there was more honesty, more emotion, in those words than there had been in his wedding vows.

Daryl blinked at him, like he didn’t know what to do with that. This was not _I think you’re hot and wanna fuck you against a wall_ , this was something more than that, and Rick didn’t know what to do with it either. After a few minutes of awkward, fragile silence, Rick’s words still in the air between them, tying them together like silk threads, the hunter finally cleared his throat and shifted his weight a little bit.

“Glenn was here a little bit ago,” he said, still avoiding Rick’s gaze, although this time there was a faint hint of pink on his cheeks that would probably be a full-out blush if he’d had the blood to spare for it. “Said the wolf was in your house.”

“Yeah,” Rick agreed, allowing- grateful for- the subject change. He sat back in his chair and ran his hand over his face, scraping the pads of his fingers over what had stopped being stubble and crossed the line into a true beard about a week ago. “Probably the day after Randall died.” He’d been doing his mental math, trying to connect the dots, line up whereabouts. The day after Randall’s death, Daryl had been out dealing with the body and Rick had been at work. Nobody home to spot an intruder, to ask questions- practically an engraved invitation. 

He thought again of the wards, those paper-thin lines etched into breakable wood, and shivered despite himself.

“We should get home,” Daryl said, and Rick looked at him again. “Before tonight. Should tell Maggie to get back outta town, too. Just for a couple more days.” He glanced out the window, jaw set. “Moon’s still close to full. It won’t transform, not ‘til next month, but it’s still dangerous.”

Rick nodded- he’d been thinking the same thing. He groaned and scraped a hand through his hair and rubbed his thumb in a sweep over the soft skin under his eyes. It had been a long, boring night, followed by a brief period of a lot of excitement, and only a few hours of sleep caught here and there during the day, frequently interrupted by nightmares. He felt like crap. He wanted to go home and sleep. He wanted to take a shower that lasted an hour. He wanted to kiss Daryl again.

At least two of those things were manageable.

“Wait, hang on,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Stay here a moment,” he ordered, and ducked out of the room.

He was back ninety seconds later, old tobacco tin in hand, its contents rattling against the metal as it shifted and rolled around. “Here,” he said, holding the tin out, and Daryl took it with a wary look. He pried the lid open- gentle, so very gentle- and Rick sat back down as the hunter frowned down at the tooth, waiting for a verdict.

“Huh,” Daryl said simply. He dragged up a corner of the blanket, wrapped it carefully around the tooth before picking it up, not actually touching the thing. “I do that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “It was stuck in your crossbow. Is it still… infectious?” He didn’t know the proper word to fill in there, grabbed for whichever one worked best.

“Dunno,” Daryl said idly. The start of a mischievous grin was growing on his face- but then he shook his head, chasing it away. He dropped the tooth back into the tin, snapping the lid shut with finality. “You look like shit,” he said, as if he’d only just noticed, as if he didn’t look worse.

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night,” Rick said dryly, and Daryl snorted and looked away, and just like that, it was good again between them. The air was clear, and Rick could breathe again- for now. They’d have to get back to it later, before Daryl skipped town, but for now it was normal again.

“Should get goin’, before you crash,” Daryl said, carefully slipping the tin into his pocket. “ ‘M not up for driving yet.” His hand was shaking a little bit, when he held it out in demonstration, and Rick silently marveled at how he could go from bleeding out on the ground to only a little pale and shaky in less than twelve hours. Determination, he was inclined to think- putting up a strong front to hide the pain and weakness that, in his line of work, meant death.

“I’ll go talk to Hershel,” Rick offered, standing up and stretching a little bit. Going home right now sounded good, so very good- they were all four of them just rattling around the too-big house, at loose ends with themselves, no livestock to look after or chores to do, just waiting for something to happen. Hershel would be glad to be gone again, Rick knew. He was worried about the werewolf, still, worried about possible retaliation- it had been his farm Randall died on, after all, his daughter Randall had been after when he died. He’d have left Maggie and Glenn behind, wherever they were staying while this mess got cleaned up, except neither of the kids had been having that. 

“Yeah,” Daryl muttered, pushing up off the arm of the couch and climbing to his feet with far more grace than the first time he’d stood up, and Rick reached out to touch him- hard to remember when that had become his right, touching whenever he wanted- but checked himself and turned away before Daryl could pull back. Yeah, they still had to work that out.

Going home, to shower and sleep, to give himself time to think, time to unwind. Then talk to Daryl, probably tomorrow, about the future Rick hadn’t let himself think about while there was still a werewolf on the loose. Do something about the spirit in Rick’s garage, do something about Rick’s house, his _life_ \- go to work before he got himself fired. Be a responsible adult once more, leave the hunter aside. Find a way to convince Daryl to trust him in this, to follow him as he has been following Daryl.

But mostly, he just hoped Daryl would still be there when he came home from work tomorrow, and tried not to think too much about the odds of that.

\-----

_June 24th, 10.22 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

Maggie had hugged him.

Carefully, of course, one arm tight around his left side and the other arm braced gently over his hip, her face pushed into his shoulder. She hugged him, and ordered him to be careful, and walked out to the car with him like he was some fragile thing that would shatter with rough handling. And Glenn had carried his crossbow out to him, holding it like it was some magical thing, like it was the Holy Grail, and while Glenn didn’t hug him, it was pretty obvious he would have if he’d been more sure he wouldn’t get maimed for doing so.

His side was a riotous mess of low-key pain, throbbing and burning, and even if Daryl could find a position that stayed comfortable for more than a few minutes, he couldn’t clear his mind enough to sleep. Maggie had _hugged him_ , and ordered him to be careful, and this- this was not supposed to happen. This was why he was supposed to be miles out of town and still driving by the time the people he’d saved realized he’d saved them. It wasn’t just about Rick- fuck, Rick and his stupid _I’d rather have you_ , like he didn’t think that would rip Daryl right in half- it was about all of them, people who knew his name and what he’d done for them, and thought him a hero.

He rolled off the couch- stairs were still a little daunting to him- and wandered into the kitchen, wanting to pace, wanting to punch something. He did neither, just opened the cabinet and pulled out the half-full bottle of whisky. The last time this thing had made an appearance, Daryl had woken to find himself sitting on Rick’s chest, holding a knife to the other man’s throat, Rick’s hands on his bare skin, feeling so warm and so alive.

He thought of ghosts, and werewolves, and other things- the ones that had gotten away, during his long and illustrious career, the ones that would remember him. He thought of the people who would know his face and think of death and blood and fire. Then he thought of Rick in the kitchen of his house, curled around the pain as the spirit of his former best friend tried to literally rip his heart out.

Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck all of them. God damn it all to hell. He snorted and fished a cup out of one of the other cabinets and poured himself a healthy dose of whisky, not bothering to put the lid back on the bottle as he set it aside. He’d drink until he went just a little bit numb, just enough to take the edge off the pain- and the fear.

Looked like he was staying after all.

\-----

_June 25th, 1.28 p.m.  
Pine Crest Motel_

“Whoa,” Lambert said simply. He reached out and poked at the shattered doorframe with one finger- latex glove on, at Rick’s insistence. The door itself was still lying on the ground, where it had fallen with the motel clerk had knocked on it. It had been propped up, wedged into the doorframe so no one could see at a glance that something was wrong.

There was blood smeared on it, fingerprints painted in rust-red around the edges. Whoever had propped the door into place had had blood on their hands.

“You remember who was staying here?” Lambert asked the clerk, a pimply-faced teenager with a voice that still scaled the octaves when he spoke and hands that fluttered uselessly through the air.

“No,” the kid said, and cleared his throat of the inevitable crack in his words. “It was just a guy. Checked in for a week, and I never saw him after that.”

Rick stepped around the door, eyeing the room beyond in consideration. There wasn’t nearly enough blood for someone to have died here- Daryl had lost more yesterday- but he forced his mind away from that, because that wasn’t helping. There was only a single smear on the floor, and a trail of drips leading to or from the door, and a few more hand- or fingerprints in blood on the carpet, on the bedspread, at shoulder-height on the wall where a man Rick’s height had most likely staggered and caught himself against the wall for support.

“This didn’t happen recently,” he said, not quite a question. The blood in the carpet was dried, not even a little bit tacky- twenty-four hours ago, at least.

“Nah, Mister Rob- I mean, the guy who checked into the next room saw the blood today and called it in,” the kid said, clearly remembering the concept of customer privacy at the last possible moment. He was fidgeting again, wrapping his fingers around each other in an endless loop, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It’s probably been there a while,” he admitted apologetically. “We aren’t… real great on room service or anything.”

“Did he pay with cash or a credit card?” Lambert asked the kid, and Rick stood up from his crouch and moved a step closer to the bed, stooping over to look at the blood on the bedspread- and staggered, something small and round rolling under his boot.

“Cash,” the kid said, still wringing his hands, chewing on his lower lip, leaning over a little so he could watch Rick through the doorway. “The manager’s gonna blame me for this, I’m gonna lose my job,” he half-wailed in dismay, and Rick shifted around and met Lambert’s gaze, jerked his chin to indicate that he get the kid out of here. Maybe not being in direct line of sight of all the blood would calm him down a little. Lambert nodded once in reply and turned away, catching the kid by the elbow and pulling him away, asking as he went about the motel manager. Rick waited until he was sure they were gone before he knelt down, lifting his foot to see what it was he’d stepped on.

For about ten seconds, he thought _bullet_ \- he wasn’t technically wrong- he poked at it with a gloved finger, grimaced at how deformed it was, probably from where he’d stepped on it. Then his breath caught and his heart froze. The mushroomed metal at the point of the bullet was bright and shiny, too shiny, too malleable, too soft- he could feel it starting to give under the pressure of his fingers- it was the right size, the right caliber-

He pulled out his gun and opened the chamber, spilling five bullets across the carpet uncaringly, catching the sixth before it could hit the ground. He put his gun down and picked up the spent bullet, holding it and the fresh one side-by-side, comparing the too-shiny metal at the tip. Then he slotted the unused bullet back into his gun, and the other five bullets as well, taking comfort in the familiar action, the used bullet tucked safely into the palm of his hand. He stood up again, feeling far too calm, feeling cool and distant, like this was happening to somebody else and he was just watching it like it was a movie, hardly aware of his own actions as he moved over to the doorframe again, leaning in for a closer look.

The fingerprints were smeared, but he could call in a few favors, get them sent to the crime lab in Atlanta, request it be a rush job and get it back to him as soon as possible-

I found the wolf, he wanted to say- wanted to fucking shout it to the skies- I found the wolf, I found the werewolf- but he bit his lip instead and pulled his glove off, wrapping it around the bullet, and slid the whole thing into his pants pocket before turning and heading out.

Lambert was talking to the clerk a ways away. He raised an eyebrow at Rick, questioning- where they going to pursue this? Rick turned to head over to him, because _hell yeah_ they were pursuing this, he had the werewolf’s blood and fingerprints and the silver fucking bullet he’d shot into its shoulder- he reached for his cell phone as he went, because Daryl would need to know this, but Rick couldn’t call him right now, not yet, not with people watching-

His cell phone rang, sudden and loud, and Rick nearly leapt out of his skin. He took a moment to calm down, to just breathe, then held up his index finger- _gimme a minute_ \- and stepped away again before he pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was Lori.

Rick almost didn’t answer- it was _Lori_ \- that was one he’d remember to his dying day. He almost didn’t answer.

“Lori, I’m in the middle of somethin’,” he said in greeting. Ignoring her calls never ended well.

“Is Carl there?” Lori demanded, uncaring of his words, her tone borderline hysterical, and Rick’s protests faltered and died in his throat.

“What?” he countered, voice suddenly gone hoarse.

“Is Carl in Ashlyn?” Lori asked, and she was definitely crying. Rick could understand that. “He’s not home, he’s _gone_ , and he hasn’t been answering his phone-”

“Lori, calm down,” Rick ordered. He found himself moving suddenly, jogging over to Lambert. “He’s probably just as the arcade or the movie theater an’ hasn’t heard his phone ringing.” Lambert’s head came up, eyes widening, as Rick reached him, no doubt overhearing that and picking up on the sudden tightly-controlled panic in Rick’s voice, coiled like steel wire through his spine. He pressed the phone against his chest for a moment to address his fellow deputy. “My ex says my son’s disappeared,” he began.

“Go,” Lambert said, waving him away. “I got this.”

Rick nodded at him and clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder for a second, a wordless thanks, then turned and ran for the cruiser. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he said to Lori as he ran.

“No,” Lori snapped, furious despite her tears, fire to Rick’s ice- he had loved her once, and for good reason- this woman was nobody’s damsel in distress, no helpless victim. “No, Maureen Jenkins said she saw him at the bus depot, Rick, he’s heading out to _you_.”

Maureen Jenkins had been Carl’s third grade teacher, a fresh young woman who was only just starting out in her career. She and Lori had met at one of the parent-teacher conferences- one Rick had had to bail out on, which had left Maureen with an unfavorable opinion of him that he’d never quite managed to change- and had just clicked, instant best friends, much to Carl’s dismay. They’d kept up the friendship after Carl moved on to fourth grade, and beyond- Maureen had been Lori’s support during the divorce and everything that had gone with it. If she said she’d seen Carl at the bus depot-

Shit.

Rick fumbled his phone, trying to coordinate his hands and the car keys and his phone and opening the car door all at once. “I’m headin’ to the bus stop,” he said as he slid into the cruiser. He leaned against the center console for a moment, feeling the hard press of the bullet in his pocket pressing into his hip- but the wolf could wait. Rick had more important things to focus on right now. “I’ll try callin’ him, but if he’s not answering for you…”

His cop tone was getting through. Lori was calming down considerably, cooler and in control, still sniffling but her voice steady now. “I’m looking at a bus schedule,” she said. “The bus would’ve gotten into Ashlyn about twenty minutes ago.”

Rick had no idea where the bus station in Ashlyn was in comparison to his house- oh god, his _house_ , Carl might not realize- fuck, he had to call Daryl _now_. “Lori, I have to hang up now, I have to call some people,” he said, trying for reassuring and fairly confident he’d fallen short.

“Keep me updated,” Lori ordered, using a term she’d probably picked up from Rick himself, then, “Rick, please. Please find our boy,” and that was pure worried mom.

“I will,” Rick promised, because he would- he’d taken on a werewolf and lived, he could find his kid, he could do _anything_ \- and hung up on her before either of them could say anything else. He let the phone drop for a second while he started the car, pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, then picked it up again and dialed Daryl. He listened to it ring through to voicemail once, twice, three times in a row- goddammit- he was at least thirty minutes away from home, and he could radio it in, ask his fellow cops to keep an eye out for his kid, but he couldn’t exactly tell them that his house was dangerous and don’t go in it-

Fourth time calling in a row, right before the voicemail recording picked up, there was a click, a thump, a muffled oath. Then Daryl was on the line, panting like he’d run a marathon.

“I know who it is,” he said in greeting, vicious and triumphant and _furious_ , burning anger incandescent in his tone.

“Daryl-” Rick began.

“I know who the wolf is,” Daryl cut in, and then had to stop, making a low noise of pain that was barely audible over the phone and twisted Rick’s heart. The last he’d seen of the hunter, Daryl had been sprawled carefully over the couch, snoring into his pillow, smelling of the whisky still sitting in the open bottle on the kitchen table- drinking, no doubt, to make up for their lack of any painkillers more efficient than Advil. He was still pale and shaky and dammit, he should be in bed for at least a week, not out doing- whatever he’d been doing. Safe to assume the wolf hadn’t walked up and knocked on the front door and introduced himself, so Daryl had clearly left the house himself, and if Rick didn’t have more important things to worry about right now, he’d be yelling at the idiot. “Fuckin’ _traitor_ ,” the hunter hissed, and there was more hatred in those two words than Rick had ever heard before.

“Daryl, Carl’s missin’,” Rick said, before he lost the other man completely, and for a moment he was worried- Daryl knew who the wolf was, and he had his priorities, just like Rick had his-

“What?” Daryl demanded, sounding like he’d been punched in the gut. “What d’you mean, missin’?”

“Lori’s friend saw him at the bus depot, Lori thinks he took a bus out here,” Rick said, and Daryl swore.

“Can’t let him go in your house, I’ll keep an eye out for him,” he said- and if he was keeping an eye out for Carl, he wasn’t off chasing after werewolves, and Rick could finally breathe again.

“All right,” he said, feeling the ugly knot of tension in his gut easing, loosening, slipping away. “All right,” he said again. “I’m headin’ to the bus stop. Call me if he shows up.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said simply, and hung up on Rick, and Rick found himself smiling at the dead line. God, Daryl and Lori couldn’t be less alike if they honestly tried- and maybe that was a good thing, maybe that was what Rick needed.

He was ten minutes from town- seventeen minutes from home, give or take- when Daryl called him back, and Rick’s world shattered.

“Is he-?” he began, answering the phone with the obvious question- but the tone of Daryl’s voice shut him up, the panic and raw terror Rick had never heard from him before, never expected to hear from him.

“Get your ass home now, he’s here,” he said, and he was breathing hard again, pain choking his voice. “Shit, he’s here, get home _now_ -”

“Daryl, what-” Rick began.

“Just get home, they’re both here and I can’t,” Daryl said, and cut himself off with a grunt.

“Both,” Rick echoed uselessly- but on some level, he already knew what that meant, had spun the wheel and turned the car sharply around to head for home, had flipped on the lights and the siren.

“Your kid,” Daryl said. “The wolf. They’re here. Get home _now_.” 

And the line went dead.

\-----

a movement, a spark-

_awareness_ -

and it stirred, fury and anger and hatred and _mine, my child, my woman, mine mine mine_.

blood on silver, and there was new warmth in its domain, life- _jealousy_ , burning so bright, so very cold- and it stirred, shifted, awoke and breathed out its cold, testing this life. one was familiar, and welcome, and- and- something else, a hollow place where something powerful once dwelt, a word echoing on fading breezes-

_loved_

but one wasn’t known, and was not welcome here.

in the dark and the deep and the cold, it stirred, and rose up to greet these lives, and to steal them away.


	24. werewolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, my babies, this is what you've been waiting for, suffering through twenty-three chapters and one hundred thousand words for, so I'm not gonna waste any more time babbling at you. FYI, after this, there will be two more chapters to this monstrous fic.
> 
> (by the way, the entire dual-monster plot idea evolved out of a desire to write a certain scene that features near the end of this chapter, because it's an awesome idea and it totally needed to happen. i make no apologies.)

_June 25, 1.12 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

It started with a stupid pack of cigarettes.

He wanted- needed- something to _do_ , something that would get him out of the house, away from his thoughts and everything that had happened and everything that might. He fumbled uselessly around the house, half-assing the dishes and throwing on a load of laundry. Then he went out onto his front porch and smoked one cigarette, reached for another, and encountered only empty cardboard. With all that had been going on the last few days, he hadn’t had the chance to buy more, hadn’t even realized he’d been running low. He only smoked when he wasn’t hunting.

It worked under his skin until he was pacing, agitated, until his side was fire and his head was swimming dizzily, until he’d decided that, screw it all, he was getting more. He wasn’t on good enough terms with any of the neighbors to bum a ride, so he gritted his teeth and dragged his motorcycle out of the garage. He went to the grocery store, because if he was gonna be an idiot, he might as well do it right and pick up a bottle of Aspirin and some over-the-counter antibiotics while he was at it, and he was halfway through the automatic doors when he spotted Joe.

The older man was at the checkout counter, his stuff- bandages and painkillers, pretty much exactly what Daryl had come to get himself- spread out on the conveyor. It was a relief to see him, alive and well, so much so that Daryl hesitated a moment and allowed himself to just breathe- he felt like he’d dodged a bullet he hadn’t even realized was coming- he didn’t like Joe, but he didn’t want anything happening to the other hunter either. He allowed himself something that was almost a smile and stepped forward, about to greet the other man-

Hunters who weren’t observant didn’t last long. Hunters who didn’t look at people and wonder and watch tended to die bloody, often at the hands of creatures that weren’t the harmless people they looked to be. It was survival, that was all, nothing personal, it was just what _was_ , and hunters were at higher risk than most and tended to suffer the highest level of scrutiny as a result.

Joe hadn’t noticed him, was still talking to the cashier. He said something that made her laugh, and he laughed in turn, looking away as he did, still laughing, still smiling- and his gaze locked with Daryl’s and the world froze.

His left canine was gone- not missing, Daryl knew exactly where it was, in a cigar tin on his own kitchen table- and Daryl saw it and _knew_.

They stood in the frozen tableau for a moment, Daryl’s eyes narrowing and his body tensing as he put the pieces together in his mind, berating himself for missing the obvious even as hatred blossomed and twisted inside him, burning bitter venom for the man standing before him, the man who was a hunter, one of Daryl’s own, how _dare_ he let himself be turned, how _dare_ he hunt people-

And Joe’s smile twisted, understanding dawning in his eyes, _so that’s how it will be, then_ , and Daryl backed up, back outside through the still-open doors. Joe made as if to follow, but the cashier blocked him, making a gesture towards the stuff on the conveyor, and Daryl turned while she was distracting him and _ran_.

Sometimes a hunter can become something worse than anything they hunt, he’d told Rick once. Seems Daryl himself hadn’t managed to learn that lesson.

He was halfway home when his phone started ringing, a sharp, persistent vibration in his pocket that he ignored in favor of not crashing his bike and berating himself more than a little bit. He’d left his crossbow at home- stupid, _stupid_ \- but he had his buck knife, always, he could’ve slashed the tires on Joe’s truck-

The phone was still ringing by the time he made it into his driveway, which should have been a warning that something was maybe not so good on other peoples’ worlds too, that someone might be having as bad a day as Daryl. He didn’t think about that, though, just wheeled his bike into the garage and slammed the door down and answered right before the phone went over to voicemail, his breath scraping like sandpaper over his side- he’d popped a few stitches, he knew that gaping-pulling sensation, but that was so unimportant right now.

“I know who it is,” he said when he answered, not even bothering to check the Caller ID, since only one person called him these days.

“Daryl-” Rick said, and his tone was urgent, but Daryl didn’t hear it.

“I know who the wolf is,” Daryl snarled, then had to stop when the garage door leading into the house didn’t open fast enough and he twisted wrong to avoid running his side into the doorknob, a sharp whimper of pain tearing itself out of his throat from the motion. “Fuckin’ _traitor_ ,” he hissed through the pain, hateful and helpless and still just unable to understand _why_.

“Daryl, Carl’s missin’,” Rick snapped, and it finally occurred to Daryl that calling someone four times in a row might be a sign of some urgency and not just someone calling a friend to chat.

“What?” Daryl demanded. “What d’you mean, missin’?” God, of course the whole fucking world had to come unhinged at once.

“Lori’s friend saw him at the bus depot, Lori thinks he took a bus out here,” Rick said with the controlled tone of a scared man who knew panic wouldn’t help anybody. Daryl swore under his breath, heading up the stairs to the ground floor and over to the window flanking the front door, pushing the curtain aside to look out.

“Can’t let him go in your house, I’ll keep an eye out for him,” he said, and Rick let his breath hiss out like he hadn’t thought Daryl would help, and that honestly hurt. Daryl had been the one to push him into sending his kids away for their protection- hell, Daryl had been the idiot who’d told Carl it was safe to come back to town on Monday, should probably be grateful the kid waited an extra day.

“All right,” Rick said, relief in his voice, almost too raw for Daryl to handle. “All right. I’m headin’ to the bus stop. Call me if he shows up.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed, and hung up before Rick could say anything else in that broken tone. He tossed his phone onto the dining room table and ducked away, grabbing his bow off the kitchen table where he’d left it last and checking it over. He wouldn’t be able to draw the string back, not without a lot of fighting and a lot of pain. Best hope he wouldn’t have to use it at all.

He set the bow on the table next to his phone- he would have to use it today, he knew he would- and settled into the chair nearest the window, watching and waiting and, for the first time in more years than he could count, praying. If something happened to Carl, because Daryl told him it was safe, because Daryl was too blind to see the wolf in his own house… He couldn’t let it happen. He _couldn’t_.

He wasn’t going to.

He put his hand on his bow and settled in to wait.

\-----

The bus ride was long and boring- there was a moment of heart-stopping terror for about six seconds when he jolted awake and realized he’d been asleep and panicked over potentially missing his stop- but mostly just long and boring. He hadn’t expected that- he didn’t really know what he’d expected, his only understanding of buses that weren’t school buses came from movies and TV shows.

His mom had called him ten minutes before he got to Ashlyn, and kept calling basically nonstop after that, and Carl knew he was so busted, so very deep in it, and it really wasn’t going to hurt to just ignore her a little while because it wasn’t like he could get _more_ grounded than he was already going to be. His mom couldn’t blame his dad for this, he’d been very careful about that- she couldn’t use this against him, couldn’t take Carl away from him. He fired off a text, finally, when he was standing on the already-familiar streets in Ashlyn, looking at the 7-11 that marked the town’s northern boundary, so she’d calm down and stop thinking he was maybe lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Then he started walking.

The town was so familiar around him, so comforting- broad streets with elms leaning lazily over the roads, shading the sidewalks and the storefronts with their canopies, breathing space between each building, a scattered handful of people on the sidewalk, all walking at calm paces and nodding and smiling and saying hi, one woman walking a hulking horse of a dog that nearly knocked Carl off his feet when it greeted him by shoving its head against his hip, demanding petting. It wasn’t anything at all like the claustrophobic hustle and bustle of a big city like Atlanta, all glass-walled buildings reflecting sunlight fit to blind a man, the people pushing past each other with cool disinterest.

He was almost home- Daryl would be home, even if Carl’s dad wasn’t, and probably wouldn’t drive him right back to the bus station- when it started going wrong.

He’d been aware, peripherally, of the oversized pickup that had been driving down the road. He was also aware when it slowed down to follow him instead of passing him, maintaining a comfortable buffer of a few houses between them, and Carl tucked his chin against his chest and repressed the urge to turn around and look. The truck was faster, but only on the road- Carl could run, could cut across yards and slither over fences- but Carl still had to cross the road to get to his house, which was on the side of the road without the sidewalk, and he didn’t want the driver knowing he’d noticed him until then.

Then he made the crest of the hill, and saw his house, and Daryl’s, and there was no motorcycle in his driveway, and Carl stopped dead. Daryl had never put his motorcycle in his garage that Carl had seen, only bothering to toss a tarp over it if the forecast called for rain. Which meant Daryl probably wasn’t home. Which meant-

He could hear, behind him, tires on asphalt, gears shifting over. He flinched when the engine died, chewed at his lower lip and looked anxiously around- no one was home, what the hell- and again when he heard the truck’s door open, then slam shut. Unable to stop himself anymore, he twisted around to look.

The thing that had gotten out of truck wasn’t human- oh, it looked it enough, Carl supposed, it could fool people if it wanted to- but it didn’t want to now, and had let its monster out to play. Flat, cold eyes, a snarl on its face- Carl couldn’t point out any one thing that set him off, but it sent shivers up his spine, a certain knowledge forming in his mind that if he let this thing get anywhere near him-

Daryl had said, once, that night he’d dragged Carl and Rick and Judith out of their house, he’d said something- anyone comes in here- Carl _ran_ , bolted like a startled deer, ran across the road and up his yard and onto the porch of his own house- _they’re gonna have to deal with that_ \- he’d rather take his chances with a ghost than whatever was behind him, thank you.

There were footsteps behind him, an easy loping run, and Carl took the porch stairs two at a time and pushed through the ruin of a door and darted inside, ducking instantly away into the dining room, sticking close to the wall and dropping down low- his father was a cop who’d seen countless lives shattered by tragedy that could have been averted with a little bit of forethought, a simple understanding of how to get out of a bad situation, and had decided that was never happening to them- and running, because there were footsteps on the porch outside.

He’d screwed up- no, _fucked_ , he’d fucked up so bad, he hadn’t even considered-

And then there was a figure framed by the front doorway, and then in the house, accompanied by a low subsonic growl that Carl felt more than heard, vibrating in his very bones, and he tucked himself down lower and slithered through the other door into the kitchen. For the very first time in his life, he was facing the thought of death, and it terrified him, and he didn’t even know how it had all gone so wrong, so fast. If he got out of this alive, he was going to willingly, happily, accept whatever punishment his parents heaped on him and never run away like this again-

-if he got out of this alive.

\-----

Daryl was dialing as soon as he heard the truck, heard its familiar brake-wheeze, heard the harsh rumble of its diesel engine. Crossbow in one hand, phone in the other, he used the bow’s nose to push the curtain aside-

-and saw Carl standing frozen in the street, indecision and fear on his face as he glanced wildly around, and oh _fuck_ -

Rick answered, saying something Daryl didn’t hear. He cut over the other man’s words, too busy bracing his bow and pulling back on the string and grinding his words out through the pain.

“Get your ass home now, he’s here,” he ordered, and the string slipped from his right hand, ripping over his fingers and taking off a layer of skin and thank god he chewed his nails short or he’d have lost one or two of them too. “Shit, he’s here, get home _now_ -”

“Daryl, what-” Rick demanded.

“Just get home, they’re both here and I can’t,” Daryl began, then grunted with pain as the string finally pulled back and hooked into place. He sagged forward, breathing hard- he’d definitely popped a few stitches, he could feel the blood soaking through the bandages and into his shirt.

“Both,” Rick said, and he still sounded clueless, but Daryl could already hear tires squealing over the line, the wail of the siren beginning.

“Your kid,” Daryl said. “The wolf. They’re here. Get home _now_.” And he hung up and dropped the phone, pushing out the front door and running across the yard- Joe- the traitor- the fucking wolf was disappearing into Rick’s house, of all places, probably following Carl who didn’t even know-

Daryl ghosted up the porch stairs, sacrificing a bit of speed for stealth, bow up and aimed. His hands were shaking and his breath was catching and the world was starting to do its sickening, dizzying whirl again- he shouldn’t be up, let alone running around and fighting, and he was bleeding again, losing blood he didn’t have, and heading into a house with a werewolf and a spirit and a scared kid, and this was easily the lowest point of his hunting career to date. He nudged open the front door and ducked inside, looking around with a single sweeping glance, pressing tight against the wall as he moved forward. No kid, no wolf, no spirit- nothing leaping out at him, for good or bad, and there was no way Joe could’ve killed Carl in the few seconds he’d had, he didn’t have his wolf form, he only had his human weaponry- which was dangerous enough, Daryl had to allow that. Humans had been killing each other just fine for thousands of years without needing sharp teeth or claws.

He stopped just shy of the corner into the living room, trying to muffle his harsh breathing, trying to figure out how to do this-

-then a hand snaked around the corner and Daryl was being hauled forward, twisted and slammed into the wall, the crossbow twisted awkwardly between them as Joe leaned into him. The wolf- not a hunter, not a human, a _traitor_ \- snarled at him, the sickening scent-mix of spearmint toothpaste and rotting meat washing over Daryl’s face, and Daryl snarled back and slammed his right fist into the wolf’s mouth, the exact same spot he’d slammed his bow into the day before.

Joe reeled back a moment, and Daryl twisted his bow around, not bothering with anything fancy like aiming, just pointing the silver-tipped arrow at the wolf and pulling the trigger. The bow was pointed down, the arrow darting forward to stab through the wolf’s thigh and drawing out a howl of pain- then something slammed into Daryl’s bad side and he went down, gasping for air and unable to see anything through the whiteout of agony. He was hit again, same spot, and he was on his knees, curling over into himself, choking on startled tears of pain-

The air stirred, and there was a thud, a grunt, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Then there were hands on Daryl’s arm, someone trying to haul him up but lacking the sheer brute strength to move him. “C’mon, Daryl, get _up_ ,” he heard Carl say, distantly, his voice muffled by the white-noise rush of pain, and he pushed himself up, got one foot under him, and then he was half-falling, half-staggering forward, following where Carl led.

They were at the back door- good thinking, get out and get to Daryl’s house and point and laugh as the bastard bounced off the wards like a moth on a screen door- when Daryl finally had the presence of mind to look back. He saw Joe on his knees, bloody butcher’s knife on the ground by his knee- he could only imagine where Carl had stabbed him to drop him like that- and- shit, oh _fuck_ -

Daryl twisted into Carl, body-checking the kid out of the way, and the air whistled as it was split by another arrow, Daryl’s crossbow in the fucker’s hands, the arrow lodging into the wood of the door at perfect skull-height for the kid. Carl stared at the arrow with too-wide eyes, then darted a look up at Daryl. He was fumbling blindly with the door, fighting with the lock, and it didn’t matter- Joe would run them down, or at least Daryl, before they made it to Daryl’s house. The hunter huffed out a breath- froze for a heartbeat, watching the air crystallize- 

To his left was the fireplace, complete with a set of iron pokers and sweepers, because the Rick Grimes who had existed before Daryl Dixon barreled into his life had thought he was a normal man and dressed himself and his home up in the trappings of civilization to convince himself of this. Daryl ducked his head low, watched as Joe fought to his feet, yanking the arrow out.

“Get to the kitchen,” he said to Carl, quiet as he dared. “Get salt, then go to the garage. Got it?”

“The garage-?” Carl began, but Joe was on his feet and prowling forward, and Daryl pushed Carl aside, moved a step away from the kid, forcing the wolf to divide his attention. Carl pressed in tight against the wall, slithering past as Joe advanced on Daryl- the wolf let him go with barely a glance, dismissing him even though the kid had come after him with a fucking _knife_.

Something shifted in Joe’s face, the snarl lessening into a familiar, apologetic, fond smile, and Daryl felt sick at the sight of it. He had almost bought this man’s bullshit, had almost believed it all, had thought they were allies and working towards the same goal. He was so fucking stupid.

“All right,” Joe said, and it was Daryl’s turn to snarl, inching another step towards the fireplace. “If we’re done beating on each other, can we maybe discuss this like rational adults?” He was moving closer, closer- Carl was in the kitchen, then darting out, hand full of the warehouse-store-sized container of salt, thank god something was going right-

“Fuck you,” Daryl said, and grabbed the poker and swung it around.

Werewolves healed fast, even wounds from silver if they got the silver out- but it had been so close to dawn, and he’d been buying bandages and painkillers at the store- the poker slammed into Joe’s left shoulder and the wolf went grey and _howled_ , and Daryl swung the poker again, cracking it this time against Joe’s temple and dropping him like a felled tree. He darted past the wolf, sharp turn and down the stairs at a half-controlled run, slamming into the far wall- a furious roar behind him, bastard recovered too fast-

The garage was icy-cold, the air shivering and alive around him. Carl was standing just inside the door, almost dancing on the spot with anxiety. He was hammering the button to open the doors leading outside, but the machine was sputtering and whining uselessly, the spirit’s interference too strong. Daryl grabbed Carl by the shoulder, pulling him in close, pushing the kid back into the corner by the doors. He caught the salt container in Carl’s hand, spilling it around blindly as he grabbed for it, then drew a rough arc segregating their corner from the rest of the garage. The salt stuck, gritty and sharp, to the blood on his hands.

The door to the house exploded open and Joe stood framed in the doorway, blood on his shirt from his shoulder, on his face and neck from his temple, on his pants from his leg. Daryl stepped back over the salt line, putting a hand on Carl’s chest and pushing him back, back into the corner, standing between the kid and the approaching werewolf.

“All right,” Joe said again. He had blood in his mouth, probably from the missing tooth- he turned his head and spat out a glob of bloodied saliva, then turned back to his prey. “Let’s try this again. I just want to talk.”

“How long,” Daryl said, his voice surprisingly calm for the fury he can feel burning through his veins like acid, but when Joe gave him a politely confused look, the façade shattered. “ _How long_?!” he roared, and the werewolf actually retreated a step or two in the face of his raw hatred.

“Longer than you’ve been alive,” Joe said, touching one hand for a second to his right shoulder, where Daryl imagined there would be a ghost of a scar, teeth marks from an old bite. For a moment, Daryl faltered- Joe wasn’t that much older than him, he would’ve had to have been bit when he was Carl’s age or younger- but only a moment. Joe clearly had some control over his wolf, but instead of putting his expertise to use and locking himself into a basement or something during the full moon nights, he was out hunting and killing people. He knew full well what he was doing, and had no intention of stopping, and that made him the epitome of everything Daryl stood against.

He couldn’t count on Rick riding in to the rescue- he had no idea where the man was, how long it would take him to get there. He had to make this work, had to get this done on his own. Fortunately, his backup was already there- Joe hadn’t noticed the cold, hadn’t noticed the shivering sense of another presence in the air, but why would he? It wouldn’t even occur to him that there might be a spirit down here, that Daryl would walk willingly into a spirit’s lair.

“You’re bleeding real bad,” Carl said quietly, and Daryl glanced down. The kid had squirmed to the side, so Daryl was still between him and the wolf but he could see what was going on. He’d put his hand on Daryl’s side to brace himself, only to jerk away at the feel of warm wetness, and was now staring at his red-painted palm.

“I’ll let the boy go,” Joe offered, as Daryl looked back up at him. “I was only after him ‘cause his father shot me.”

Carl dragged in a sharp breath and stepped forward, staying inside the salt line but neatly dodging when Daryl reached to push him back. “If my dad shot you, he had a reason,” he said angrily, hands curling into fists, one smearing Daryl’s blood on his jeans. “What did you do?”

The kid didn’t even come up to Daryl’s shoulder, and was still scrawny enough that he looked like a stiff wind would snap him in two- Daryl had never really seen him as anything more than _Rick’s kid_ , an appendage of the man. But in that moment, he loved that kid desperately, fiercely proud of the warrior-prince beside him, the kid who had an unflinching faith in his father, the kid who had taken down a werewolf with a kitchen knife when a professional hunter got his ass kicked.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Joe said soothingly, and Carl sneered in plain disbelief.

“Killed people,” Daryl said. He pressed his left hand over his side, spread his fingers out and pushed down, applying pressure to the wounds. He could feel his heartbeat rattling through his ribs. “A lot of ‘em.” Thirty-six years’ worth, at least- say one every full moon for thirty-six years, thirteen full moons a year because the lunar cycle was twenty-eight days- if he killed only one person per cycle, that alone was four hundred sixty-odd people dead. It was doubtful, though, that he would limit himself to one per cycle, and that wasn’t even touching the number of people he’d turned and let live, to hunt and kill and be hunted and die on their own.

He had always thought of werewolves as a virus, using the spread of a disease as an analogy for how dangerous they were, but he had never really stopped to consider the sheer, staggering numbers involved. Joe was a serial killer the likes of which the human race had never seen before, outside of genocidal maniacs. And there was another layer of horror underneath that, one slowly pulling back to reveal itself, a sickening realization of _why_ -

“You came here for me,” he said carefully, slowly, putting it together as he went. “To _turn_ me.” He shivered- blood loss and terror and the bitter, bitter cold all in one, and Joe’s smile took on a sharp edge, showing too many teeth, and Daryl felt fire spark and roar to life within him. “What, were you lonely or somethin’?” he snarled.

“Two is better than one,” Joe said. “And no one would think to accuse a fellow hunter of being a werewolf, look how long it took you to figure out it was me-”

“Wait, _werewolf_ -?” Carl began, talking over Joe, and pressed in a little closer to Daryl again-

Then one of the boxes in the tower behind Joe tipped over, spilling out a trio of large, framed family portraits. All three hit the ground, the glass shattering-

-and twisting, picking themselves up like magic, shooting at Joe’s unprotected back like miniature ballistic missiles, while the air shimmered and took on the form of a man-

Daryl turned and dropped to his knees, wrapping one arm around Carl and hauling him in close, shielding the kid with his own body. He felt a few pieces of glass spray harmlessly across his back, their momentum broken by the protective barrier of the salt line. He dared to look back, looking to see Joe spinning around and swinging out wildly, clawing the air, his back glittering with glass shards like a tortured porcupine-

The spirit had formed completely, a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, brown eyes gone black with fury. He stood in the center of the garage, hands at his sides, head down and tilted slightly to the side, his edges blurred and staticky- a dark smile lifting the edges of his lips, a triumphant smirk-

Joe snarled at it, groping blindly for a weapon, but Rick had only just moved in and hadn’t even started settling in, nothing where it should be, nothing in its place. He found a hammer, and threw it at the spirit- but the steel head passed through without even so much as rippling the surface of the spirit’s image. There was no iron in anything anymore, Daryl thought with a triumphant sneer- steel had replaced it, and steel was useless against spirits.

A sliding gesture from the spirit’s hand, and the hammer took flight, return to sender- Daryl flinched right before impact, wincing at the sound of cracking bone- but Joe was a werewolf, and those fuckers didn’t die without silver, he could take a beating. He clawed along the wall, searching blindly- tripped over one of the toppled boxes, grabbed it and ripped it open and threw the contents- hand towels and what looked like a lacy tablecloth that ballooned out of its neat fold and drifted feather-light to the ground, yeah, that was really gonna scare the spirit-

There was a shape in the far corner, tucked neatly under a tarp- a gas grill, if Daryl had to guess, left over from the last owner of the house- it rolled an inch, then rocketed forward, catching Joe in the stomach and slamming him back. He hit the wall with a grunt, folded in on himself and dropped, pushed the grill away with a fierce howl and clawed at the ground, cutting his hand open on broken glass and smearing blood across the tablecloth, pushing and shoving through boxes, throwing everything he could get his hands on at the spirit in the hope of getting lucky and finding something with iron in it-

Daryl turned back, turned away from the war behind him- with the salt line, he and Carl were basically invisible to the spirit, and Joe was moving away from them. He didn’t look back until there was a loud, heavy _whoomp_ that could only be a full-grown man being tossed against a wall hard enough to leave him reeling and seeing double, and then silence. Daryl moved then, tried to get to his feet but folded back down again with a sharp cry, his right side a study of pain like he’d never felt before.

“What do you need?” Carl demanded, then grabbed Daryl’s wrist and _shook_ , sending aftershocks of agony all over him as the motion jarred his side. “Daryl!” he yelled, and really, it wasn’t fair that he was yelling, Daryl had only faded out for a second or two- “What do you need?”

“Salt,” Daryl said, his tongue thick and the words syrup-slow in his throat. “Make a line to-” and he pointed to the far wall, across the big garage doors- if they cut off the doors from the spirit, they could get them open and get out.

“Line, right,” Carl said, grabbing up the salt container. It took him two tries- the first time, he dropped it, spilling salt in a starburst pattern across the concrete floor- then he was off, bent double as he drew a line in front of the doors with hilariously careful precision, like he thought he was being judged on neatness.

Daryl braced himself against the wall and pushed himself up, little cries of pain tearing out of his throat as he moved. The garage had gone silent for a moment- Joe was out, and the spirit was taking a breather-

-except then there was a warm, living body pressing against Daryl’s, and a hand wrapping around his neck. There was nothing human in the strength that lifted him up to his toes, in the pinpricks of pain as too-sharp nails bit at the skin of his neck, in the sharp teeth bared in a snarl- Carl yelled in surprise but Joe caught him and tossed him carelessly away, and Daryl couldn’t breathe enough to protest. He clawed uselessly at the hand holding him up, until Joe caught one arm with his free hand.

He was bloody and panting, his arm visibly broken, his face a sheet of blood- he’d found a toolbox, if Daryl had to guess, judging by the wrench lying on the floor behind him, banished the spirit for the moment with that- he’d taken one hell of a beating doing it, but not enough, they’d blown it, they hadn’t been fast enough-

“I don’t know if it’ll even work,” he said mildly, and lifted Daryl’s captured wrist to his face, and Daryl couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do _anything_ \- “let’s find out.” And the werewolf opened his mouth, teeth glinting in what little light there was to offer-

There was a figure behind Joe, magically appearing as if summoned- not brown-eyed and broad-shouldered, but blue-eyed and lithe, icy fury etched in every line on his face- Joe pulled his head up and looked back with a noise of surprise as the muzzle of a Colt Python was pressed against his back, right over his heart.

They were angled enough that when the bullet ripped through Joe’s chest, it missed Daryl and buried itself into the wall beside him. Daryl watched the surprise and pain in Joe’s eyes bleed into blankness, and then the werewolf was dropping- but Daryl wasn’t, strong hands on him, holding him up, a familiar body pressed against his to support him.

“Dad!” Carl yelped, and threw himself at his father, and Daryl grunted as the shock of impact echoed through Rick and into him. One of the hands on him disappeared, and Carl was pulled in tight, Rick dipping his head briefly to press his face against his boy’s hair, breathing him in like it was the only way to be sure this was real, that Carl was really there and really safe.

Something moved in the darkness behind Rick, and Carl jolted away. “He said make a line,” he said helplessly, shaking the salt container in emphasis.

“Do it,” Rick said, and Carl darted off to finish his line while Rick put his shoulder to Daryl’s chest and rearranged them so he was supporting the hunter instead of just holding him up. “You’re goin’ to the hospital this time” he said, simple and undeniable and open to absolutely no argument, and Daryl nodded once and dropped his head against Rick’s shoulder. God _damn_ , but he hurt, and he was willing to deal with the hospital and their questions if it got him a shot or two of morphine.

Carl came back, the salt container spilling from his fingers as something slithered and shifted and moved in the darkness. He grabbed for the handle at the base of the door and lifted it up as high as he could push it- Rick reached over Daryl’s head to raise it a little bit more and hooked his other arm around the hunter and hauled him out, out into the too-bright sunlight that Daryl had honestly never expected to see again.

“Get the door,” Rick ordered, jerking his chin to indicate his cruiser, and Carl ran, the perfectly behaved boy now that his little rebellion had nearly gotten someone killed. The car was parked half on Rick’s yard, engine still running and lights flashing, although Rick had had the sense to kill the siren as he’d approached, before he tipped the werewolf off. Rick hesitated long enough to push the garage door back down, hiding their sins from the world, before he resettled his hold on Daryl and hauled him down the length of the driveway.

He draped the hunter into the backseat of the cruiser as gently as he could, shut the door and said something to Carl as he circled around to the driver’s side. A moment later, both father and son slid into the front seats, driver’s and passenger’s respectively, and Rick didn’t wait for the doors to close before he was pulling off the grass and onto the road. He looked back, once, peered through the mesh dividing the front and back, and Daryl met his gaze steadily. _I’m still here_. 

Sticky and bloody, salt on his hands, in so much pain he could hardly think, but still here. Still here.


	25. recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon realizing that this unending monster of a fic is indeed ending, I have seen quite a few people panic, which is, quite frankly, shocking. I never thought I'd get such a large and loyal readership- but that's all right, because I never thought I'd finish this thing either. That said, I'm actually quite fond of this AU, and I have a rough plot line for a potential sequel, and have already started plotting it out and doing all sorts of unnecessary research. Please note, this _IS NOT_ a for-sure promise of a sequel- fics of any considerable length are truly daunting, especially for someone with a full work schedule. But I _want_ to continue with this universe, when I rather thought I'd be sick and tired of it by the end of this, so... keep your fingers crossed.
> 
> (by the by, entirely my fault, author cannot count and is somewhat mathematically challenged. there is indeed another chapter after this one, followed by an epilogue, which i apparently didn't think counted as another chapter, that will be posted as well on the same tuesday schedule. my bad. carry on.)

_June 26th, 1.09 a.m.  
Ashlyn_

“Whoa,” Glenn said, shining his flashlight over the garage. “War zone.”

Rick looked up from unfolding the tarp, looked around his garage. The once-neat pile of boxes was destroyed, their contents strewn around the garage- the spirit had used everything it could move as a weapon, and Rick’s heart ached to see it, to see everything that once held value for him torn asunder. But there was a rhythm in his mind, a memory of a steady beeping, the sound of his boy’s soft breaths in sleep and the image of pale eyes, wide with drugs, reflecting the harsh fluorescence of hospital lighting, and none of this stuff mattered anymore.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said again, looking to Glenn, then to Maggie, who was standing guard over the two men with a wrench in one hand and a water bottle full of salt in the other. He wouldn’t have gotten them even more involved if he could help it, if he could change any of it- one man could do this, it would just take a lot longer, and he wanted to get back to the hospital, to Daryl and Carl, as fast as possible, and Maggie and Glenn were the only ones he could think of to call.

“Dude,” Glenn said, coming over to kneel down next to Rick. “Stop saying that. We aren’t bailing on you.”

“We offered,” Maggie added. “You didn’t ask. And we both owe Daryl, so…” She trailed off with a shrug and turned away. They should, theoretically, be safe- they’d been liberal with the salt lines, and the spirit’s anchor wasn’t in the garage anymore anyway- but Daryl had argued with Rick for a solid hour after hearing Rick’s plan, and only settled down when Rick agreed to take every precaution. By then, the nurse had been standing outside Daryl’s room, giving both of them the hairy eyeball, and Rick would have agreed to anything if it got Daryl to stop fighting with his IV line and looking like he was giving serious consideration to leaving, despite the doctors’ warnings and orders, despite _Rick’s_ orders.

“A’right,” Rick said quietly. He spread the tarp out and stood, moving over to stand opposite Glenn, who was very carefully not looking down at the shape between them. “You got this?”

“On three,” Glenn said with a determined nod, and Rick bent down, preparing to lift. “One, two…”

There was a particular sort of looseness that dead bodies had, like all their joints were severed, all their bones disconnected. It took time to reach that stage, though- what they had to work with in Joe was full rigor mortis, limbs locked stiff like he’d been set with glue. Dead weight was also significantly heavier than live, and Glenn flinched and slipped and nearly dropped his load twice, despite only needing to shift it a few inches. As soon as the body was on the tarp, he was darting away, making little _ew_ noises and wiping his hands on his shirt- which, Rick figured, was probably going in the trash as soon as he was done here.

Rick crouched down next to the body and began patting down pockets. After a moment he rocked back on his heels, tossing the keys to Joe’s truck over to Glenn. “Red pickup, parked on the street, three houses down. Back it into the driveway.”

Glenn grabbed up the keys and darted away, glad to be out of the death garage, and Rick started wrapping the tarp around the body. Maggie pressed in close, leaning over Rick’s shoulder to look at the body.

“That’s the werewolf, huh?” she said, and Rick shone his flashlight briefly over the body. He could still remember- would never forget- running into that garage to see Joe lifting Daryl up by one hand like the hunter weighed nothing, his teeth so close to Daryl’s skin, and whatever illusion of humanity the creature had cultivated had been forever shattered. 

Rick regretted the death of the last of his innocence, that childish belief that everyone was what they looked to be. He would never regret pulling the trigger. 

“Carl said he’s been a wolf for at least thirty years,” he said tiredly. Daryl had sketched out his rough calculations, while Carl had been on the phone at the nurse’s station, talking to his very angry mother. The numbers- a lowball estimate, the low end of the kill count window- made Rick sick.

“You got him,” Maggie said, and that… didn’t make it better, really, but what did was that she was even trying at all. Standing in a room with a murderer and his kill, and she was reassuring him.

_We’re all mad here_ , he thought inanely, thinking of a striped cat with a crescent-moon grin, and had to choke down the insane giggles that bubbled up his throat. Smuggling a dead body out of his garage at an ungodly hour in the morning so the neighbors didn’t see- apparently that was his life now, and he was recruiting.

The garage lit up garishly red as Glenn put on the brakes, inching the truck back until its tail was actually in the garage. Then he scrambled out, darting around over to Rick and taking up one end of the tarp.

“Look,” Rick began, dragging his hand down his face, “I wanna thank you both-”

“Nah, don’t worry,” Glenn said, waving aside Rick’s word. “You know what they say, real friends help you hide the body.”

Maggie made a noise, something quiet and hysterical with just an edge of mania to it, and really, Rick was relieved that he wasn’t the only one feeling that right now. This whole thing was just so far outside his- any of their- comfort zones. Their only expert was in the hospital, and he was there to stay for another day at least, no matter how much he bitched.

“All right,” he said, and bent down again, taking a firm hold on the tarp, making sure to grab it so it wouldn’t unravel and dump its cargo onto the garage floor. “Let’s get this done, then.”

\-----

_June 26th, 7.49 a.m.  
King County Memorial Hospital_

He woke up slowly, swimming up through the grey fog of the drugs, his breath scraping oddly over the length of his right side- he could feel his ribs expand, could feel the new stitches pulling at his skin, but there was no pain, just a comfortable numbness. He blinked lazily and lifted his head, staring down at the blanket covering him, and tried to lift a hand to pull the blanket back so he could see what they’d done-

A hand caught his, wrapping strong fingers around his wrist, and gently pushed him back down. “Whatever you’re doin’, don’t,” the other person said evenly, and Daryl rolled his head to the side and allowed himself a tiny smile in greeting.

“You just get back?” he asked.

Rick sighed and settled himself back in the chair, long legs stretched out at uncomfortable-looking angles. “Yeah, we took Joe up to the mountains,” he said quietly, sparing a glance at the door, making sure no one was around to overhear. “No fire, like you said.”

“Damn right,” Daryl muttered. Joe didn’t deserve a hunter’s funeral. Joe deserved to be picked apart by crows and have mice den in his skull. “His truck?” He hadn’t had any particular instructions for that, aside from just the general _get rid of it_ , hoping that Rick’s long training in solving murders would help him know how to cover one up.

“Emptied it out and left it in a junk yard,” Rick said. “They’ll find it eventually, maybe.” Daryl glanced at him at that, curious, and Rick smirked. “Some junk yard owners aren’t as ethical as others,” he said. “Sell it for parts instead of reporting it.”

“No case without a body, right,” Daryl muttered.

“No case _with_ a body,” Rick added, stretching as best he could in the confines of the chair. “He’s not in any of our databases, not DNA, not fingerprints, no work history, no credit cards, no driver’s license- he’s off the grid.” 

Daryl sighed and looked away, looking up at the ceiling. A hunter’s life- Daryl himself had been off the grid, once, still was to a certain extent. Certainly he’d never signed anything like an official lease with Michonne, so anyone looking for any sort of address for him would only find, after quite a bit of digging, a couple of PO boxes he checked once every few months.

“You’re goin’ in to work?” he asked, picking uselessly at his thin cotton blanket, his fingers clumsy and unsure, his strength shot. They’d given him a transfusion, which was far less fun than TV shows and movies made them out to be- the body reacted to the intruding blood, whether it accepted it or rejected it, and left him weak and shaky and sick- like putting low-grade gas into a diesel engine, it could work with it, it just really wouldn’t like it, and you’d be feeling the side-effects for days. 

Rick sighed and scraped his hands over his face. “No,” he said. “Asked for the day off to deal with Carl. Lori said she’d be by this afternoon, but I don’t know if she’ll really wait that long.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand along his left wrist. “I told her to come here, since she can’t go by the house,” he added, finally, and Daryl gave a snort that would have hurt like hell if he weren’t cruising on a morphine half-high.

“Shane saved our asses yesterday,” he said quietly, somberly- naming the spirit, giving the person behind it his due. A spirit was a spirit was a spirit, but Shane Walsh had been a living person, with flaws and strengths and hopes and dreams and a beating heart. Daryl had absolutely no delusions about not suffering the same fate as Joe had he not been behind the salt line- but Carl had gone into no man’s land and come out unscathed, and that was pure Shane, not the spirit.

Plus, not gonna lie, it had felt _damn good_ , throwing that traitor to a spirit.

“He was a good friend,” Rick agreed, not finishing off that sentence- _once, before_ \- just letting it lie.

Daryl nodded and sniffed a little bit, lifting his left arm and tugging idly at the IV line in his arm until Rick pushed his hand back down again. “Docs say I’ll be outta here by tomorrow mornin’ if nothin’ goes wrong,” he said. “You good ‘til then?”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “I’ll talk to Carl, figure out what he did with the box. We’ll handle it when you’re up to it.” We. Not I, not whoever happened to be around- _we_. That’s what partners were.

The grey fog of drug-sleep was starting to blur the edges of his vision again, so Daryl settled himself back down into the little nest he’d built after harassing the nurse into giving him all the pillows she could find. He hesitated for a long moment, focusing his rapidly-fading attention on the warm presence at his side, then- blaming it on the drugs- reached out one hand, carefully feeling around until long fingers interlaced with his. For a moment, Rick squeezed tight, but then he relaxed his hold again.

It was nothing- it was huge- it was enough. Daryl didn’t waste any energy trying to figure it out. Instead, he went to sleep.

\-----

“This sucks,” Carl said, staring down at his lunch tray- and he thought nothing could possibly top middle school cafeteria food for disgustingness. His dad, sitting across the table from him, snorted and took a long drink of coffee, possibly trying to wash away the taste of the quote-unquote food. Carl looked up at him, squinted through the fringe of hair falling into his face, considering the man across from him. He’d always known his dad was kind of a badass- detective, carried a gun, had actually killed people before, shot them while on the job- he knew those things, but to see it happen, right in front of him…

And more than that, him shooting that guy, the werewolf- that hadn’t been _on the job_. That had been something else, something more personal. There wouldn’t be paperwork to fill out, mandatory leave to take, psychiatrists to talk to. This one wasn’t in the clear, wasn’t excused. This was different.

_Werewolf_ , Carl thought, and remembered how easily the guy had picked Daryl up, and shivered a little. He didn’t know if that made it murder, or self-defense, or something else entirely. He should probably be scared- for his father, if not of him.

He looked up at his dad, who was leaning his head against one hand and poking his fork into the meatloaf-type patty on his own tray with the other, looking half-asleep and worried, and only wondered where he’d found silver bullets.

“I don’t want to go back to Atlanta,” he said, and his dad huffed a disbelieving laugh and looked up at him.

“You don’t exactly have a lot of bargaining power right now, Carl,” he pointed out. He tossed his fork down and pushed the tray away, dropping his hands to the table and folding them together. “What were you thinkin’?” he asked, sounding too tired to be properly angry, but Carl bristled defensively anyways.

“I saved Daryl’s life,” he snapped, and instantly knew it was a bad call by the way his dad’s eyes went flat and blank- a sure sign that Carl had really screwed up.

“Daryl wouldn’t’ve needed savin’ if it hadn’t been for you,” he pointed out, cool and honest, not intended to be cruel but stinging anyways. As if sensing that, Rick leaned back in his chair, breaking the icy walls around him, just a tired man. “Leaving that aside, what made you think it was all right to run away from your mother?” he asked.

It wasn’t _fair_ , Carl wanted to say- _you sent me away, I can take care of myself_ \- except that wasn’t true, was it? And it had been thoroughly proven to him. He had saved Daryl’s life, yeah, sure- but Daryl had saved his in turn, had known what to do and hadn’t flinched away from doing it. Carl had gotten lucky, nothing more.

“I didn’t want to stay in Atlanta,” he muttered sourly, speaking to his lunch tray. “You guys said I could stay with you for the summer, and then you sent me away, and I just…” He shrugged and sunk into himself, retreating, gaze on the table. He heard his father sigh tiredly across from him, but didn’t look up. He was being a brat, a selfish little child, and he knew it, and had no better excuse than it, and that of all of it stung the worst. He’d screwed it all up, made it all worse, and had nothing to show for it.

“What’s wrong with Atlanta?” Rick asked. “You didn’t used to mind living there.”

Carl bit at his lower lip, thinking of summer afternoons spent roaming a town that was _all his_ , because it wasn’t dangerous like a big city was. He thought of Daryl teaching him to cuss properly, and Judith sitting in the grass watching butterflies flit past, and his dad home in time for a civilized dinner every night and not getting called away at odd hours. He could breathe here, was the real answer.

“Everything reminds me of Shane,” he said quietly, and heard his father go statue-still across from him, but now that he was talking, it was all coming out, his voice picking up speed and volume as he talked. “Shane, and Mom, and the divorce, and the other kids at school know about it, and I just- I _hate_ it there, and I don’t get why _you_ get to run away and I have to stay.” He bit off the last word, looking up to stare briefly, wide-eyed and apologetic, before looking away again. He hadn’t meant that last part, hadn’t even known he was thinking it, not until it was all tumbling out.

There was a long silence after that, and Carl poked at his not-food again, wishing he could just vanish into the floor. He’d said some pretty horrible things to his parents before, screamed them at them in the heat of an argument, but this was different- deliberate and rational, not false accusations designed to hurt, but the cold truth, and all the more painful for it.

“A’right,” his dad said finally. He reached out and snagged Carl’s tray, pulling it away from him. “What do you want to do, then?” he asked, and Carl looked up at him again, almost surprised by the question.

“I dunno,” he said quietly, helplessly, and looked away again. Lie, big fat lie, such a liar- he knew exactly what he wanted, but he didn’t know how to ask for it.

“Your mother ain’t movin’ to Ashlyn,” Rick continued, and there was something dark and forbidding in his tone- not only that Lori didn’t want to move to Ashlyn, but also that she might not be allowed, like Rick had any say in that. “So what do you want to do?”

Carl tossed his fork onto his tray and collapsed back against the back of his chair, folding his arms over his chest, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stared out across the cafeteria. To give it voice, to put it into words- such a fragile thing, so easily destroyed- but his dad killed a _werewolf_ , he can do anything.

“I wanna live here,” he said finally, and dared to look back again. “Not Atlanta.”

His dad nodded slowly, his eyes focused on something else, something far away. He didn’t look surprised by Carl’s words. “And your mom?” he asked after a moment, refocusing on Carl. “You’re not gettin’ out of time with her, so don’t even try.”

“I dunno,” Carl said again, trying not to shut down, trying not to get defensive- they could make this work, if he had his dad on his side, this could actually happen. “I can go there for weekends, right? It’s not that far a drive, I can do homework in the car, I’ll spend summers with her, I just-” He cut himself off- so much for not sounding desperate- but the threat of another school year in Atlanta stretched ahead of him, eternal and inescapable, and he’d be running away a hell of a lot more if they tried to send him back there, he could promise that right here and now.

Rick was watching him now, gaze piercing, all-seeing- Carl hated him for that, sometimes, felt as if he could never get away with anything ‘cause his dad _always knew_. “Your mother’s comin’ out this afternoon, to pick you up,” he said. “I’ll talk to her then.” For a moment, his mask wavered, then collapsed entirely, and he leaned forward, just a tired man trying to understand his teenaged son. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

Carl hesitated a moment, so he wouldn’t jump on it like a starving dog on a steak. “Yeah,” he said, and clutched at his paper cup of orange juice, to give his hands something to do. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”

His dad nodded again, and pushed his chair back, standing and stretching in one movement. Carl dipped his head again, bit at his lip again- but he couldn’t, he couldn’t just let it go-

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” Rick asked, rubbing at his back, digging his fingertips into sore, tired muscles, and Carl looked up at him.

“In the garage, that was Shane, wasn’t it?”

Rick froze, then sank back down into his chair. He looked Carl in the eye as he said, “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore- what does that mean?” Carl demanded, irritated despite himself. “How is that even possible? It’s- that was a _werewolf_ , Dad, that’s what Daryl said that guy was-”

His dad shushed him, quiet and calm, holding one hand up in a _settle down_ gesture, gaze sweeping watchfully over the cafeteria around them. Finally he looked back at Carl again, and he looked distinctly unhappy. “I don’t know _how_ ,” he said quietly. “I don’t think anyone does. But they’re real.” He took another sip of his coffee, made a twisting face as he swallowed it down. “Anythin’ more, you’re gonna have to talk to Daryl,” he added, and pointedly put the cup aside.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Carl asked. “If Shane- if there’s a ghost haunting our house.” He forced himself to stop there. He didn’t know what he was asking, didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer. Rick was looking a little bit broken around the edges, pain creeping into his eyes, and Carl wanted to take it back- his questions, and everything else, all the pain and betrayals his dad had suffered. If he only had the power to do so.

“There was a box in the garage,” Rick said. “It had some of Shane’s stuff in it.”

“Yeah,” Carl said in agreement. “Yeah, I took it up to my room. I wanted to- to look through it,” he finished, and looked away again. It was so stupid- it was all so stupid- 

“Your room,” his dad echoed, and made a noise that might have been a laugh, and fell silent again. Carl waited for him to say something, _do_ something, but there was nothing- silence.

Finally, Carl stirred again. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, helplessly, and his dad looked up at him again.

“Everythin’ will go back to normal soon,” he said, and somehow that sounded more like a threat more than a promise.

“Great,” Carl said, and fell silent again. After a moment, he pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m gonna go sit with Daryl for a while,” he said, and his dad nodded and looked away, not watching as Carl left.

He paused in the cafeteria doorway, looked back at his dad, sitting alone at the table, exhaustion lining his face, defeat in the slumped line of his shoulders- looked back, and then turned away.

\-----

_June 26th, 5.14 p.m._

The ox-sat monitor had been removed hours ago, the morphine numbness had subsided to a low-burning throb of pain echoing through his right side, last of the IV solution fed into the vein on his arm and the needle finally taken out, and Rick had picked him up a set of clean clothes- the shirt, Daryl knew better than to even think about, but the jeans went on the second he’d been left alone long enough. Rick had even smuggled in him his cell phone, provided he didn’t tattle on the cop when he inevitably got caught with it.

Rick and Carl had left almost half an hour ago to go deal with the whole Lori thing, so Daryl propped himself up in his stupid hospital bed, pushing the mound of pillows under his back so he was sitting up properly- or, at least, as properly as he could get in a bed made for leprechauns. For a moment, he listened, head down and eyes closed, listened for anyone who’d heard his struggle and was coming in to check on him, to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself again. Then he looked up, leaned as far forward as he dared, stared out the half-open door to the hallway beyond.

Then, and only then, he reached under one of the pillows and pulled out his cell phone.

He hadn’t programmed the number in- he’d never even got it, if memory served- so he pulled up the yellow pages on his phone’s browser. Ashlyn was by no means a big town- easy enough to find what he was looking for- then he hesitated, number inputted and thumb hovering over the Call button.

It would be supper time, soon. This could probably wait, although there would never really be a better time for it. He hit Call and raised his phone to his ear, listening to the ringing, shifting carefully so the phone wasn’t visible to anyone who happened to walk by his room.

After a long moment, there was a click, a soft noise, an even softer voice saying, “Yes?”

“Uh,” Daryl said, brilliantly, and for a moment he faltered. Then he grunted softly in irritation at himself- it was a little girl speaking to him over a phone line, the worst she could possibly do to him was hang up. “ ‘S your mom home?” he asked, painfully aware of how rough his own voice sounded in comparison.

The girl dropped the phone with a _clunk_ and went off, calling for Mom loud enough that Daryl could hear her fading away with distance. He chewed absently at his thumbnail for a moment, glanced out the door suspiciously again, shifted uncomfortably again. He’d never done this before. This was cop work.

Finally, there was sound over the line, the phone being picked up, a woman’s voice saying, “Who’s this?”

“ ‘M Daryl Dixon,” he said. “I came by, once, asked you about your husband.”

“The hunter,” Carol Peletier said, sudden recognition in her voice.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, and hesitated again. He wondered if she was serving casserole for dinner tonight, or if the neighbors considered a month too long to be giving a widow pity-food. He’d take one of those casseroles right now over the crap the hospital was trying to feed him.

“I heard about the attacks on the news, the dead animals,” Carol said. “Are you… all right?”

Daryl touched his free hand briefly to his right side, feeling the sutures in his skin, the bandages covering the wound. “I’ll live,” he said. “I, uh, I called ‘cause I’ve got news on the guy who killed your husband.”

Carol was silent for a long moment, probably waiting for him to fill in the gap himself. When he didn’t continue, she finally prompted him. “Yes?”

_His name was Joe Catton, and he was a hunter and a traitor and a mass murderer, and I almost trusted him with my life and he nearly turned me into a werewolf because he was lonely and bored_.

“We got him,” he said simply, and Carol made a single, quiet noise, a sound like a sob of grief and relief alike.

“Good,” she said, and her voice didn’t waver even a little bit, and Daryl hung up and dropped his phone onto the bedside table and burrowed back down into the pillows and blankets. They’d got him, and that was good.

He could live with that.


	26. the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's a little late, and I've got blathery nonsense. Sorry. But, as everyone who's reading the author's notes knows, I don't want this little *coughmonstercough* fic to end, so while the potential sequel is in the works, I have decided to do a series of drabbles set in the same universe, collected under one title. So if you have any requests, shoot 'em over. Nothing hard-r rated, please, my smut-writing skills are still shaky- but if you want an au within the au- say, what happens if Joe managed to bite Daryl- that I'll do. Also, bear in mind that there probably will be a sequel, so don't be surprised if drabbles requested in or around or directly following the sequel's timeline are delayed until such time as they will no longer be spoiler-iffic. (i do understand this will be difficult to avoid, what with you lot having no idea when the sequel will be set, but i'm sure you can get creative.) I'll start posting if I get a good response and have a decent collection of them written.
> 
> The epilogue is all that's left, dear children. So 'til next time.

_June 26th, 5.32 p.m.  
Dell’s Diner, Ashlyn_

Lori dropped back against the booth, the cushion on the backrest giving a heavy _whuff_ at the impact. She looked between Rick, sitting opposite her, and Carl, anchored firmly to her right and unable to so much as shift away without her grabbing onto his wrist like she was afraid he’d disappear again.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, looking mostly at Carl as she said it. “You think you’re in any position to be asking for something like that right now?”

“Lori-” Rick began, and had to bite his tongue, savagely hard, in order to keep from snapping at her when she cut him off.

“No, Rick,” she said, slashing a hand through the air. “He _ran away_ , why are you even considering this?”

“ ‘Cause he’ll just do it again if I don’t?” Rick asked, and regretted it immediately, even before the furious anger shuttered Lori’s expression. He sighed and dragged a hand over his face, wishing he’d taken the time to shower and shave, or even just change clothes. But he was still as scruffy as ever, and starting to smell a little, and he was wearing his uniform pants with a day-old white t-shirt, since his uniform shirt had been soaked through with Daryl’s blood. At least he’d had the forethought to leave his gun in the car, as much as it bothered him to be separated from it anymore.

“I don’t think he should get rewarded for running away,” Lori said icily, sparing Carl a warning glance as the boy tried to slide away from her a little bit.

“But makin’ life decisions as a punishment, that’s perfectly all right,” Rick countered, just as icy.

The waitress- a rotund young woman with purple-tipped hair, name of Lucy, Rick ate here often enough that she knew his normal order by heart- hesitated, just close enough to hear Rick’s words. She caught his eye and backed off, slowly, and he gave her an apologetic half-shrug and watched her go.

“I don’t see why we should have to disrupt his entire life,” Lori was saying, “force him to change schools, to leave all his friends, to pack up and move-” she was shaking her head, her hands spread out over the glossy laminated menu on the table in front of her. 

“I _want_ to go, Mom,” Carl protested, and Lori hesitated, caught between wanting to tear a strip off her son’s misbehaving hide and not wanting to alienate him even more than she already apparently had.

Her fingernails were painted a light coral pink, Rick observed inanely, as were her lips. Her hair was up in a careless bun that actually took her about twenty minutes to get absolutely perfect, long curled tendrils tracing over her bare neck, and she was wearing a light, patterned sundress that flowed around her legs as she moved. She was breathtakingly beautiful, still the prettiest woman Rick had ever met- he’d been head over heels for her from the moment he laid eyes on her, and some of that old infatuation still lingered. But he closed his eyes, and it wasn’t her soft curves he saw, but old scars and tattoos, pale eyes and a shy smile, lips pressed to his and fingers woven with his.

Lori folded her hands together and rested them on the table, staring down at the interlocking lace of her fingers. She had her lips pursed together in a truly unattractive manner- that, right there, told Rick how unhappy she was about all of this, as Lori was more than a little bit vain and was always conscious of her appearance, careful to always present the best possible front. But she hadn’t immediately shut them down, hadn’t caught Carl by the collar and hauled him out of the diner, out of Ashlyn, hadn’t called up a lawyer to sue for full-time custody, so Rick looked at Carl.

“Hey,” he said, carefully, sliding his hips forward and reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet, “why don’t you go get a piece of pie or somethin’?” He jerked his chin, indicating the front counter, with its sticky-sweet array of baked goods. Carl gave him a long, suspicious stare, but took the five dollar bill Rick was holding out to him and slid out of the booth. When he was gone, Rick sat forward again, catching Lori’s gaze and holding it.

“He ran away,” she said simply, quietly, her voice wretched and broken, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, locking down the tears that were trying to rise up.

“It’s got nothin’ to do with you,” Rick said helplessly. “He just needs to get away.” He could relate to that, easily. Lori sighed and dropped her hand again, tracing one finger idly over the patterned font on the menu’s front.

“I never wanted this to be us,” she said. “I’d see all those divorced couples passing their kids back and forth, and I always thought, at least that’ll never be us.”

Rick sat back in the booth and very carefully did not say anything. Nothing he had to say right now would make any real contribution to the conversation. But still- that sounded borderline accusatory, and the destruction of their marriage was almost entirely on her, not him. Lori gave a single, quiet sniff, then reached up and tucked one of the dangling tendrils of hair behind her ear. She looked over at her son, standing loose and careless by the bakery counter, a promise of height already in the long lines of his limbs. Lucy was over there now, helping him, leaning over the counter to watch as he pointed to the exact piece of pie he wanted, no doubt the largest slice in the display.

“I don’t want to bounce him around a lot,” Lori said. “If we transfer him here, he’s going to stay here, even if he changes his mind.” She said it like she couldn’t imagine how Carl could _not_ change his mind, like being banished to Ashlyn was a threat, a punishment. “But if this is what he wants…” She shook her head. “We’ll figure something out.”

Carl was coming back over, the change from the five in his hand, the bills crumpled up into a careless wad. He was carrying a plate loaded down with a piece of apple pie, the filling overflowing the flaky crust and spilling out onto the plate. Rick barely waited until Carl sat down, pie plate placed carefully, reverentially, down onto the table before him, before reaching over with his fork to steal one of the large apple slices that had fallen half-out of the crust. Carl yelped and waved him away, and while he was busy glaring daggers at his father, Lori snuck her hand in and slid the whole plate away out of his reach.

“Not until after dinner,” she said, shooting Rick a disapproving look as he licked the cinnamony goo off his fork. Carl stared at her, then at Rick, openly betrayed. Rick smirked back, looking at his son, his ex-wife. This had been his family, once, his whole life. Once upon a time, he could have never imagined losing any of this.

He leaned back against the booth and caught Lucy’s eye, jerking his head to indicate she could come over again, and she smiled and nodded back and looked away, gathering up her little notebook, while Rick turned back, watching Carl try to sink low in the booth and free up enough maneuvering space to reach around Lori to the pie. She was having none of it, smiling into the menu as she subtly shifted her weight in counterpoint to Carl’s squirmings, blocking him out, and Rick suddenly realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Lori smile. It had been too long since they’d been able to relax in each other’s presence.

Not his family anymore, not really- but not the woman who broke his heart into a thousand pieces anymore, either. She was someone whom Rick had once loved too much to ever forget it, but not the person Rick loved anymore. She was just Lori, anymore.

“So what can I get y’all?” Lucy asks, her voice all honey-smooth Georgia drawl, and Lori held up one finger in a classic _wait_ gesture, and Rick would ordinarily be annoyed- but instead he thought of hospital food, and an empty house waiting for him, and settled back in his booth.

They could figure this out. For the first time in a year, he knew- they could figure this out.

\-----

_June 27th, 7.42 a.m.  
King County Memorial Hospital_

Rick had slept at the hospital.

The nurse woke Daryl up when she came in to check on his stitches one last time, then returned to give him his discharge paperwork to sign- and Rick, sitting crooked and broken-looking, propped up in his awful uncomfortable chair like a doll, slept through it.

“He stayed the night here,” the nurse said, following Daryl’s gaze. “His ex left yesterday, you know, took his son back to Atlanta? And he fell asleep here, and we just didn’t have the heart to kick him out.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, blankly, uselessly- some nameless nurse at the hospital knew about Rick’s ex and Rick’s kid, which meant the whole fucking town knew about it, which meant the whole fucking town also knew Rick had spent the night in Daryl Dixon’s hospital room. Which meant any attempt to keep their relationship- whatever sort of relationship it might be- secret would be laughably pointless.

He hated small towns sometimes.

The nurse bustled out- stopping to coo over Rick for a moment, like he was some lost puppy dog instead of an ice-cold killer who’d put down a werewolf not even forty-eight hours previous- and Daryl swore at the hospital bill, which honestly was making him seriously reconsider his decision to stay in Ashlyn. Then he rolled off the bed, catching himself on the bed’s railings when the world went twisty for a moment, and finally reached out one socked foot and kicked at Rick’s feet.

The cop snorted and jerked awake and mostly upright, stopping himself short with a pained noise as he encountered the cramps and cricks that came from sleeping in a chair. He splayed his hand out across his neck and straightened his head up with a whimper, digging the tips of his fingers into the muscle along the side of his neck- it was twitching and jumping enough that Daryl could see it, and he winced in sympathy.

“C’mon,” he ordered gruffly, taking his stack of papers and waving them at Rick, who blinked blearily at him. “I’m out, let’s get the hell outta here ‘fore they find somethin’ else to bill me for.” He wasn’t ready- would never be ready- to talk about Rick sleeping in the hospital room with him, Rick watching over him and waiting for him. Instead, he moved away, grabbing his shirt off the foot of the bed and shrugging it carefully on, feeling the familiar stretch and pull of stitches and bandages.

“Wh’ time’s it?” Rick asked blearily, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, and Daryl fished his cell phone out of its protective cave of pillows and turned the screen on.

“ ‘Bout eight,” he said, then glanced over. “You workin’ today?”

“Have to,” Rick said, and wrapped his hands around the arms of the chair to brace himself as he made a game attempt to stand. He almost made it, but something went wrong at the last possible second, and he folded back down like a marionette with its strings cut, frowning down at his legs like they’d betrayed him. Daryl stepped closer and offered a hand for support but retracted it quickly when Rick glared him away, the cop’s eyes flickering down to Daryl’s bad side, to the bulky rise of the bandages underneath, and ah. That was how it was going to be, then.

“ ‘M gonna sleep,” he said, moving away as Rick pushed himself up again, this time managing to keep himself upright despite a wobble or two. “Take care of the spirit tomorrow?”

Rick hesitated, his mouth opening- he wanted to say something important, from the look on his face- and Daryl shied away, turned away and moved out of the room, because no. Not here, not now, he wasn’t ready for that. A moment later, Rick was following him, thankfully silent.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said as they approached the front desk, early morning sunlight slanting through the windows to pool like honey over the boring beige walls and tiled floor, and Daryl spared him a single glance and a nod.

Fuckin’ coward, he told himself. He’d put this off as long as he could, he knew himself well enough to know that. So long as Rick let him put it off.

The receptionist smiled at them, blond and perky and far too happy, considering her job and the hour, and Daryl grunted and ducked his head even lower, and Rick pushed into him briefly, pressing them together from shoulder to hip, loose and warm with sleep and blurring all the clearly-drawn lines between them. “I’ll get the car,” he said, all but breathing the words into Daryl’s ear, and Daryl shivered as he moved away.

Fuck.

\-----

_June 28th, 5.35 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

War zone, Glenn had said, and it was appropriate. Rick shone his flashlight into his mess of a house- shattered doorframe, arrow lodged in the back door, kitchen still smelling faintly of spoiled food, garage completely trashed- and sighed, suddenly too tired, too emotionally wrung out, to really care.

Eleven days ago, monsters were humans who did unspeakable things to other people and ghosts were memories that haunted a person from within. Eleven days ago, Rick had never been handcuffed to his own car, never shot a man point-blank through a heart with a silver bullet, never stood with two people at his back and nothing but fire and a few ounces of silver to ward off a circling werewolf. Eleven days ago, Rick had thought there was nothing, no reason whatsoever, that made killing someone acceptable. Eleven days ago, Rick Grimes had been a different man.

“He said he took the box to his room to look through it,” he said, turning and pointing up the stairs. Daryl grunted and ducked past him, pressing the wrench into Rick’s hand- _we’re in the home stretch, don’t get sloppy now_ \- and taking the flashlight. He moved carefully, still oozing from place to place like a confident cat, but with an edge of caution now, mindful of his wounds. There was color in his face for the first time in three days, and his eyes were clear of the lingering effects of drugs and pain, and Rick had to coach himself to stop staring and look away.

Sunlight shone into the house through the windows, carving Carl’s room into banded areas of butter-yellow light and dull darkness, dust drifting visibly through the sunbeams. Daryl did a quick search, looking under the bed, in the stack of laundry already gathered in the corner of the room- he found it, finally, in the closet, and dragged it out, tipping it upside down and spilling its contents across a bare patch of floor without ceremony.

Something flashed gold in the sunlight, rolling quickly away from him, and Daryl slapped a hand down on it. He picked it up and frowned at it, turned to hold it up to Rick- a gold ring, battered and worn. Rick took it from him and dropped it back into the box.

“My wedding ring,” he said simply, and Daryl wisely didn’t ask. He turned back to the stuff and started sorting through it, and Rick had to turn away so he wouldn’t see his childhood, his friendship, spread out and clinically analyzed. A math textbook with a crater burned into its cover, a baggie full of beer bottle caps, a ceramic dog figurine- things that had no value, no logic or meaning behind them- things that had once defined his friendship. Shane’s father had set his cigarette on Shane’s textbook once, forcing the two boys to share Rick’s, even though they had math in different periods, and cementing their friendship as they ran back and forth through the school all year to pass the book back and forth- all the bottle caps from all the beers they’d drank the summer after graduation, tokens of all the hangovers they’d inflicted on themselves- the dog figurine Shane had taken from his great aunt’s house after she passed away and he got stuck spending his senior year spring break with his family, giving it to Rick as a ‘souvenir’ while Rick, fresh back from Savannah, gave him three bikini tops and a lewd grin.

There were also other things, things that made no sense to Rick- Shane’s class ring, a string of Mardi Gras beads, a pack of vintage pin-up girl playing cards, an old leather wallet falling apart at the seams, a plastic baggie-

“There,” Rick said, stepping forward and reaching, even as Daryl’s hand closed around it. Not a baggie, an evidence bag, seal still unbroken. Daryl held it up and shone the flashlight through it, silhouetting a long thin chain, a pendant shaped like a pair of twos.

“Got blood on it,” the hunter muttered, tilting his head and squinting at the pendant. The boys down in Evidence would have done a compulsory cleaning before surrendering the necklace over to whoever picked up Shane’s personal effects- Lori, obviously- but clearly they hadn’t done the greatest job.

“He was wearin’ it when he got shot,” Rick said. “He always wore it.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Daryl said with a tired sigh. He pushed himself up- wobbled for a moment, let Rick catch him by the forearm and anchor him without complaint- then headed out into the hallway. He led the way downstairs, to the fireplace- the poker from the fireplace cleaning set was laying discarded on the floor, small splashes of dried blood darkening its tip, and Rick didn’t ask because he did not want to know- and knelt down. Rick paused and lifted his head, feeling the now-familiar cold oozing down his spine, a weak stirring. He looked over at Daryl, who held out the bag in silent offering.

Rick tore open the baggie with his teeth and poured the chain out into the palm of his hand, carefully flipping the pendant over so the silver 22 was right-side up. He ran the tip of his index finger over the upper curve of the first two, traced it down to the sharp turn at the bottom of the two- then with a sharp snap of his wrist, tossed the necklace onto the bed of ash residue. He took the container of lighter fluid from Daryl’s hand and squirted it over the necklace, liberally soaking it- tucked the plastic bag into the folds of the chain just to be sure- then pulled the matchbook out of his pocket. 

The air was cold enough by now that he could see his breath. He was pretty sure, if he turned to look, he would see a familiar figure imprinting itself into the fabric of the world behind him, maybe reaching out for him with its hands, its claws of ice-

The first match didn’t spark even once after three strikes, so Rick dropped it. The second lit on the first try, and he flicked it in. The fire spread ridiculously fast, first following the loops and lines of the lighter fluid, lighting it up like some abstract art line drawing. Then it touched the silver chain, and half a second later the entire necklace was burning like it was kindling, the silver loops in the chain twisting and collapsing, the pendant softening up and folding in on itself. It went up fast, faster than he would have thought possible, and it made him think about things like the impurity of lingering spirits and the purifying effects of fire- wondering if there was more at work here than lighter fluid and a spark.

Rick watched the pendant burn, and didn’t look behind him, until there was nothing left but a silver glitter to the ash and the only other presence in the room besides him was the man at his side, waiting silent and patient, giving Rick all the time he needed.

“Is that it?” he asked, because that had been kind of… anticlimactic. Joe’s death had been, too- no howling or screaming, no dramatics, just shoot him and watch him drop. The hunting world didn’t understand the idea of a satisfying conclusion, Rick decided, and allowed himself a hollow smile at that.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Don’t recommend sleepin’ here, though, not ‘til you’re sure.”

He wasn’t going to sleep in this house again, not even if he spent a thousand nights here, but he knew better than to say that. There was no way to explain that in a way that didn’t make all sorts of implications and assumptions, no way to phrase it without sounding like he was putting pressure on Daryl to make some sort of commitment. He didn’t know what Daryl planned to do yet, if he was staying, if he was leaving, if he would even want anything to do with Rick after this. Hell, Rick didn’t even know what he himself wanted- all he knew was that he wanted as much of Daryl as the hunter was willing to give.

“ ‘M gonna go open the windows in the kitchen, try to air it out,” Daryl said, heedless of Rick’s thoughts. “You should prob’ly go turn the air off.” He moved away, heading for the kitchen doorway-

It was almost audible, the sudden realization, the clarity- a crystalline ringing sound in Rick’s ears, as everything snapped into place. “Wait,” he ordered, and turned to look, and Daryl was frozen mid-step, waiting. “Don’t leave.”

For a moment, the hunter frowned, honestly confused. “I was just goin’ to the kitchen,” he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, and Rick took in a long, deep, steadying breath before moving a few steps closer. The hunter stayed put, didn’t sway away like he did when other people approached, and it was a good sign, it had to be a good sign.

“Don’t leave Ashlyn,” he clarified, and Daryl’s face shifted, settling into something more forcedly neutral.

“Rick-” he began, but Rick cut him off.

“No, don’t- I just-” He looked away and dragged his hand over his mouth impatiently- he could never manage to _speak_ , not when it mattered, never managed to say the most important things before they became irrelevant. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said, slowly and carefully, watching Daryl closely as he spoke. “I know you think you’re protectin’ me, my family, but I just…”

“Rick,” Daryl said again, but Rick shook his head and plowed on.

“This is like what happened with Shane,” he said, brutally honest, his words barbed and tearing into his own flesh, and Daryl recoiled a little bit at the comparison. “This is how I lost him, I didn’t know how to say what I was feelin’, and now he’s gone.”

They were closer now, one of them- maybe both of them- drifting towards the other, neither one properly aware of it. Rick wanted to wrap himself around the other man and never let him go.

“You have somethin’ here,” he said. “You have me.” And that was it- he was officially out of words, his emotions out in the open, his heart laid bare, and he couldn’t move. It had to be Daryl, this time. He had to be the one to decide, to move closer- or move away.

“I can’t not leave,” Daryl said, and he sounded fractured, broken. “I can’t not hunt, that was killin’ me, I have to get out and do somethin’- ‘s what I’m good at, ‘s what I _do_ , huntin’ shit and savin’ people.” It was a promise and a threat both, and Rick wanted to rave and rage at it, wanted to find the bastard who’d made Daryl believe that and beat him bloody.

It would mean late nights and long trips, missed phone calls and sleepless nights- it would mean salt and silver and fire and blood- and Rick couldn’t do that, couldn’t stand worriedly by like some soldier’s wife, waiting for the day Daryl didn’t come home. He couldn’t do that- but he could do something else.

“So leave,” he said. “Hunt somethin’, kill somethin’, then come back home.” He paused, took a deep breath- preparing. “An’ I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t do that to your kids,” Daryl began.

“I can’t let you go out there alone,” Rick cut in. “I’m your _partner_. That means somethin’ to me.”

“It won’t work,” the hunter said, but he was even closer now, pulled in like a metal filing to a magnet. “Your ex, your job, the sheriff- it won’t work.” But he sounded desperate- _convince me I can’t have this, tell me I’m right and this can’t be real_ \- and he was still getting closer.

“It’s worth a try,” Rick offered.

And then there was air moving over his face, a hand on his arm, lips brushing lightly across his- and every promise Rick had made himself shattered, every resolved crumbled into dust, and he caught Daryl by the shirt and pulled him back in for a proper kiss, the hunter holding him so tight he’d be finding bruises on his skin for days.

A moment- an eternity- later, Daryl pulled away, his breath hissing sharply out through his nose. His mouth sealed tight into a flat line, and his face had washed out pale, and one hand spread out over his right side- shit, Rick thought suddenly, he’d been grabbing at the hunter, he hadn’t even thought-

“ ‘M gonna go open those windows,” Daryl said, voice pain-tight and a bit dazed- but he moved into Rick again instead, leaning into him for a moment before pushing away, and Rick smiled into the empty air of the living room, smelling silver and smoke and tasting cigarettes and coffee, and yeah, yeah. They’d try.

God help anyone who got in their way.


	27. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my _god_ , you guys, this is it! This is the end of my 130k word monster of a fic. I want to thank you all, each and every one of you- if you followed it from chapter one, if you're just now reading it months or years after it's been completed, or if you picked it up along the way- if you commented, bookmarked, kudo'ed, or lurked in silence- if you recommend it to other people or reread it yourself or even just read it once- I love you all. This has been an absolute monster of a project, and if someone told me six months ago that I would not only begin writing, but actually successfully complete, such a long fic, I would have laughed in their face. And this is all thanks to you, my darlings, for caring enough to read it and giving me reason to keep with it.
> 
> I am currently getting interested in other projects and other fandoms, but as stated last chapter, I am still very much vested in this AU. The sequel is in the planning (but don't expect anything for a while, I want to have the plot ironed out and a decent head start made into the story itself before I start posting), and I might post a series of connected drabbles in this 'verse- seriously, guys, hit me up with prompts. But this fic is over, and done, and I love it and love you, and I hope you all loved it too.

_December 24th, 11.42 p.m.  
Ashlyn_

His phone had lit up with an incoming text when he’d been just south of the county line, but he’d ignored it- the further north he drove, the more the drizzly rain froze over into slush, then proper ice. Rick and Carl both had their own special ringtones, and everyone else who really mattered knew to keep trying if it was an emergency, so the fact that he only got one was telling.

He left the truck- Rick’s insistence, they both needed a vehicle, and preferably one of which was less conspicuous than a police cruiser- angled across the driveway, one front tire in the grass to keep it anchored, and slip-slid his way up the porch steps and into the house. He headed straight for the shower, leaving a trail of muddy, ice-stiffened clothing in his wake, barely even pausing to set the thermostat to somewhere in the seventies. He always turned it off before he went out of town, if there was going to be no one else in the house to notice the cold.

The shower melted away the ice in his hair, on his face, in his veins, and Daryl luxuriated in it, leaning against the tiled wall and letting the hot water flow over him until it started to turn cold. He took his time drying off, staying in the steam-warmed bathroom as he toweled the water off his skin, then draped the towel over his shoulders like a makeshift superhero cape to keep his wet hair from dripping onto everything. Then he finally stepped back out into the biting chill of the rest of the house.

He’d missed another text and a call while he was in the shower- both text from Glenn, but the call from Maggie, meaning Glenn had pulled out the big guns. Daryl pressed Call and then the speaker button, leaving the phone on the bed as he pulled out clean clothes. It was extremely rudely late, especially considering the holiday, but they knew what they’d signed on for when they decided they were his friends. He’d warned them, in great detail.

“Daryl?” Maggie asked, answering after only one ring. “Are you home?” _Are you safe, are you hurt_.

“Yeah, I’m home,” he said, pulling on a ratty old t-shirt that he wouldn’t mind getting wet. He paused for a moment as he pulled it down, his fingers skating over the parallel ridges of scar tissue spanning over his ribs. They were white with age.

“Good,” Maggie said, and in the background Glenn made a sleepy murmur, words blurred together too much for Daryl to pick out anything more than his own name. He pulled on boxers and sweatpants while she answered, and burrowed down into the bedcovers and rescued the phone before it fell off the bed. It would be all night before the house was warm again, but Daryl planned on sleeping through that.

“Is Rick there yet?” Maggie asked.

“Nah, not ‘til mornin’,” Daryl said. “We still comin’ over?”

“Yeah,” she said instantly, then hesitated again. “What did your brother want?” she asked finally, and if there was a taboo subject that would always remain so, Merle Dixon is it.

“To talk,” Daryl said tiredly. To talk about the good old days, and enemies he’d made, and whispers- Daryl was calling Martinez day after tomorrow, and Michonne, and anyone else he could think of- any whispers that made it in to Merle would have certainly made it to them. If something was brewing in their world, Daryl didn’t want to be blindsided by it. But until then, he was playing his semi-retired card and staying out of it.

“Well, it was good you went to see him,” Maggie said, somehow managing to make it sound like a statement and question both. Glenn said something again, and Maggie gave a tiny, surprisingly girly squeak, and Daryl really didn’t need to know what was going on over there.

“Night, Maggie,” he said, because it might have taken him six months but Rick had finally taught him that just hanging up on people was rude.

“Night, Daryl,” Maggie said on a laugh, and squeaked again, and Daryl ended the call before they could give him any mental images to star in his nightmares.

\-----

He woke up to sunlight and glorious warmth, to footsteps in the house and the babble of a baby. A moment later, a small, heavy weight dropped onto the mattress beside him, and Daryl instinctively curled around, wrapping his arm around it and pulling it in close.

“Mbah!” Judith said happily, and wrapped her fingers into his hair and pulled, because she was an inconvenient pain in the ass, just like her father.

“She missed you,” Rick said from somewhere in the room. Daryl pressed his face into the pillow and smiled, tickling his fingers up Judith’s side and making her squeal. The mattress sagged again, this time on the other side, warmth pressing against Daryl’s hip. “How’d it go?” Rick asked, much quieter, and Daryl lifted his head and looked up at him.

“He just wanted to talk,” he said. “Weren’t much interested in makin’ sense.”

“Anythin’ to worry about?” Rick pressed.

“Not yet.” Daryl nudged Rick away, giving himself room to sit up. 

“You pick up a hunt on the way home?” Rick asked, and when Daryl glanced at him, he gestured towards the doorway. “You left your clothes in the hallway, again.”

Cohabitation, Daryl thought wryly, and rubbed at his chin. He’d never lived with anyone who wasn’t family before, and had had no idea of the negotiations and compromises that came with it. He’d have to pick those up before Rick got really annoyed over it. “Favor for a friend,” he said. “I owed Martinez, an’ he don’t like diggin’.”

“Owed him for what?” Rick asked, but Daryl shook his head and turned to him, burying his face against Rick’s shoulder. God, he’d missed this- missed _them_ , as impossible as it should have been- he understood that it wasn’t fair that Rick got total monopoly over the kids, and Lori deserved to see them during the holidays too. He just didn’t like it.

“Maggie called last night,” he said when he’d pulled away. Touching was still kind of a big thing for him, probably always would be- which was fair enough, Rick wasn’t the cuddly type either. “We’re still goin’ over.”

“Better not get too comfortable, then,” Rick said with a sigh. He reached around Daryl, scooping Judith up. “Get dressed, I’ll get the stuff in the car. You’re blockin’ the driveway, by the way.”

He was gone before Daryl could respond to that, before he could even figure out how he was expected to, and Daryl groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, curling up in the still-warm nest of blankets. Rick still spent half his nights in the second guest bedroom, and in about two years this place would feel far too small, with Judith thundering around like toddlers do- but for now, for the first time in a very long while, Daryl felt like he’d finally come home.

\-----

The Greene family farm was still, the paper-thin layer of icy snow over the fields undisturbed, the air crystalline with cold and quiet. Hershel had reclaimed his surviving cattle and horses, and had filled out their thin ranks with a few heads of cattle and a foaling mare and a bull, but restoring the bulk of his livestock would have to wait until spring. At least he’d had insurance and wouldn’t have to eat the cost himself, even if things were going to be tight around the farm for a while. Rick wanted to help, since it was, in a way, his fault- but Hershel had point-blank refused, giving Rick a _look_ that had shaken him down to his boots.

Inside the house was a riot of color and noises and scents, red and gold and green, baking ham and cookies and cinnamon, music and talking and a noisy baby. Maggie and Hershel sparked off of each other, good-naturedly arguing, and Glenn and Carl worked around them, flowing like water around rocks in a stream, following orders like good little soldiers, and Beth stayed on the fringes but out of the way, Judith on her hip, playing with the tail of her golden braid.

They opened presents, and drank eggnog and hot cocoa, and Glenn taught Carl how to play rummy while Maggie looked over his shoulder and helped Carl cheat. They watched _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , which was- as Carl informed all of them during his one-man veto of _Miracle on 34th Street_ \- not nearly as boring as most other holiday films, even if both Hershel and Rick had their doubts as to the validity of claiming it a holiday film at all. Then the dinner process had begun, and with it, chaos.

Rick had come from a small family, and had built a small family around himself. The busyness of so many people didn’t take long to overwhelm him, sending him fleeing outside to find Daryl, who had never pretended even for a moment to have any patience for that crap. Rick followed the path of the porch until he found his fellow hunter out by the back door, braced against the railing, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“Dinner’s in ten,” he said as he settled down next to the other man, close enough to share warmth. Daryl grunted in acknowledgement, then shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I know you said nothin’ fancy,” he began, then stopped again. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out, slapping it onto the railing between them with short, jerky movements. “Probably ain’t appropriate, or whatever,” he said gruffly, then pushed away from the railing and paced away in agitation.

Rick looked at the thing on the railing- an old, beaten tobacco tin, the tin they’d kept the werewolf tooth in. The last he’d seen of it, it had been tucked onto a shelf in the locked closet where Daryl kept most of his weapons, now that there were kids in his house. He picked the tin up slowly, pushed up on its lid until it popped open, stared at its contents for a moment before turning the tin over to spill them out onto his hand.

The chain spooled out first, a length of bead-shot metal that clicked and rattled against itself. Then the tooth itself, capped with steel at the base to provide a way for the chain to attach, tipped with silver at its wickedly sharp point to keep it from cutting the wearer. He put the tin down and slid his free hand through a loop of chain, lifting it up until the fang dangled in the air.

No, it probably wasn’t appropriate, or whatever. It was proof that he’d taken the law into his own hands, a reminder that he still did and would continue to do so as needed.

But even among the hunters, how many could wear a werewolf’s fang?

He dropped it back into the tin, snapped the lid shut and tucked it into his shirt pocket, then followed the sounds of creaking wood around the corner of the house, to where Daryl was pacing, smoking for real now. The other man saw him coming and lowered his cigarette to the railing, bracing himself-

Rick wove his arms around Daryl’s waist, slid one hand up the hunter’s back to bury his fingers in the too-long hair, and kissed him, hard. A moment later, Daryl got with the program and kissed him back, catching him by the coat and settling himself back against the railing, Rick sliding in against him, filling in all the hollow places in Daryl’s body, fitting together so neatly, as they always had.

When the kiss broke, and Rick was sucking gently at the line of Daryl’s neck, he pulled back just far enough to ask, “That was the favor you owed Martinez?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, and tilted his head to the side a little more, a silent demand for Rick to get back to work. “ ‘S just a souvenir, I guess,” he added. “You didn’t do too bad, after all. For a newbie.”

Rick bit him, right on the carotid, and because he was that close he could feel the grunt shift to a near-silent huff of laughter, then slide up the register to a quiet moan as Rick sucked on the offended spot.

And then someone was talking, and coming around the corner, but by then it was too late- “Hey, Dad, Daryl, Maggie said to get inside, dinner’s almost- _ew_!”

Rick lifted his head, but Daryl was holding him too tight for him to pull away, and he could feel the laughter now, shaking through the hunter’s frame.

“Oh my _god_ , I told you not to _do that_ in front of me!” Carl wailed, and darted back around the corner, heading into the house and slamming the door shut behind him, yelling _they’re making out on the porch_ loud enough that they could still hear him clearly.

“We could leave him here an’ go home,” Daryl offered, and Rick considered that.

“Nah,” he decided finally. “We’ll eat first. He probably won’t wanna come home right away, we’ll have Glenn or Maggie drop him off later.” Tomorrow, preferably, if they didn’t mind keeping the kids overnight. Rick loved his children, he really did, but he’d been stuck in Atlanta with Lori for almost a week, and he’d missed this man something fierce.

“Better get on in, then,” Daryl said, and caught Rick by his coat lapels and pulled him in for one more fast, tender kiss before letting him go and pushing off from the railing.

Rick turned to walk into the house, and Daryl fell into step beside him- like he’d always been there, like he’d been created to be half of Rick, to complete Rick- and they headed inside to their family.


End file.
